


The Book Club is a Lie, and Bashir, a Liar

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A Whole Lot of Sweetness, AND HUMOR!, An obscene amount of imagery, Atmospheric, Book clubs obviously, Friends to Lovers, Holosuite fun, Infatuation, Julian Speaks Poor Kardasi, Julian is Chief Medical Dork, Lies are best left to the liars, Longing, M/M, Making Love, Misunderstandings, Now we have Chronitons, The Librarian in me is showing, Time traveling boomerang stylez, Vrierans, Weirdly present tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-08-30 20:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8548354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: Julian tells a lie. It has unexpected consequences.Garak hears a lie. Lies do not bother a liar.Usually.





	1. In Which Julian Lies to a Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A special thanks to my husband who encourages me, always, to try harder.
> 
> **Any and all feedback is much welcome and appreciated and will receive many warm hugs!

You needn't hold a phaser to Dr. Bashir’s head to get him to admit it. He knows full well this is all his fault.

Things often are, after all.

For being a genius, Julian often acts...unintelligently.  
Never with malice, though!

And this time is no exception. Nothing he’d done at lunch bore even the slightest malign intent.

It was an experiment.

For science.

No, that isn’t quite true and Julian knows this. It wasn’t for science, it was for… other reasons. Ones he hasn’t fully sussed out.

It is Julian’s want and his habit to push. He’s been doing it for as long as he can remember. Pushing himself, pushing his colleagues, pushing his lovers. It’s never worked exceptionally well. Oh, but he keeps at it!

These days, he pushes hardest with Garak.

He didn't realize-- _ couldn't  _ have realized _ \--this  _ latest pressure would prove to be the straw that broke the Cardassian’s back. Not after the mounds of hay he’d been heaping on for the last year! All those times he’s pointedly accused Garak of being a spy, all Julian’s lukewarm responses to Garak’s favorite literature, or even his coy refusal to take Garak’s admittedly superior fashion advice.

Julian Bashir has been trying to get a rise out of his lunch companion for a very long time.

_ You can try to fool the world, Bashir, but let’s not play games. You understand exactly how you took today’s encounter a step too far. _

Julian sighs. Why does his internal voice have to be so sensible?

The book club is a lie. There is no such thing.

There never was.  
  
There probably never will be.

Rather, there  _ might  _ be a book club somewhere--it’s a large station, after all. Julian doesn’t keep company with everyone who lives here. Maybe the ensigns discuss literature together after their shifts? Maybe there’s a group of Bolians gathering right now to discuss the latest romance from Bolarus IX?  _ The Co-Wife and I _ , or something. He can scarcely imagine that there are not two or three or more people engaged in a lengthy discussion of books, at this precise moment, in some corner of DS9.

The book club may exist, but Julian is not part of it.

He never should have said he was.

_ \--And after work tonight, I’m meeting Mara and T’Le. _

_ Two females at once, Doctor? Your ambitions never cease to amaze me. _

_ No, no, you misunderstand. They’re part of my new book club. Much to discuss! We’ve just read a novel you’re probably familiar with. It’s by a Cardassian named-- _

The moment it left his mouth, Julian knew he had finally-- _ finally _ \--managed to get Garak’s attention. He’d geared himself up for the reaction.

In fact, Julian had been quite excited about it.

It did not go as planned.

As a rule, Garak turns every lunch hour into a dance. He’s the choreographer and Julian follows as best he can. The steps are always changing. Every move Julian makes is countered. He is swept and swayed around a point, and brought round again until he does not know if he agrees with Garak’s argument, or if he’s simply blinded with awe.

It leaves Julian breathless every time.

_ Garak _ leaves him breathless.

But today, Garak had no interest in the dance. Instead of revealing a new part of himself, as Julian was sure he would, Garak simply cut the music.

_ I’m so glad you have this new outlet to discuss literature, my dear Doctor. In fact, selfishly, I find the timing rather convenient.  _

_ Oh? _

Garak’s tone had been affable as ever, but his blue eyes seemed to darken--just a shade.

_ I fear I’ve been putting off an important project at the shop in favor of our lunches. I so enjoy our get-togethers, you see. But unfortunately, the fashion-forward shoppers of this station will not be kept waiting. _

_ What are you saying, Garak? _

_ For a while I fear I’ll be unable to meet with you for these little chats. Please, do enjoy your book club. _

It had all been so blandly final.

_ A while _ ?

What constitutes ‘a while?’

Garak no longer wishes to discuss books with him, that’s all Julian knows. Not true. He also knows that it is his fault.

****

On his break, Julian tries, unsuccessfully, to stop by Garak’s Clothiers for a word, an apology. Rather, he makes it through the door--but the shop is crowded and, uncharacteristically, its proprietor barely gives him a nod of acknowledgement. 

Julian needs to right this situation. 

He needs Garak to make him dizzy again. 

If that means that in the future, Julian’s pushing and prodding will lead him to naught, if it means he’ll never quite know the real Garak, it’s still better than being left alone on the dance floor.

Julian paces his small office, his hands moving over work that needs doing, his brain on this newest problem.

He only meant to make his friend…

Oh come now, not  _ jealous _ . Surely.

Intrigued? Intrigued.

He wishes to be a mystery for Garak.

The way Garak is a mystery for him.

He would like to keep Garak guessing.

The book club was only meant to goad Garak--just a bit--into giving him something more. It need not be much. A tiny sliver of a piece of himself.

_ Ah, Mr. Garak. See? I can have thoughtful conversations with other people, too. And those people might then share with me. They might open up to me. We might grow closer, like I hoped to do with you. _

_ Like I  _ still  _ hope to do with you. _

Julian craves more of Garak. 

Is that wrong of him?

After all this time, to want to peel back the layers and see for more than a glance, what lies beneath?

The tailor is always so bland, so neutral, with a customer service smile, and a slight incline of the head. Garak presents himself as a perfectly straight row of stitches, but he isn’t. Julian  _ knows  _ better. If only he could get a look at the underside of the fabric.

The messy bits.

There have been glances, so fleeting that Julian can’t be sure he ever saw them at all.

Garak pissed off.

Or just  _ pissed _ from too much Kanar.

Passionate about Cardassia.

Penitent about his crimes, real or imagined.

_...Possessive. _

That's what Julian is desperate to see.

That’s why he chose the book club.

Julian Bashir is not an accomplished liar.

He longs for Garak’s possessiveness.

There are nights when he dreams about the first time they met, when Garak laid his hands on Julian’s shoulders. Except, in the dreams, Garak doesn’t move away. He stays, his hands warm and heavy, warning off anyone who might approach Julian.

_ This human is mine. Stay away. _

That’s why Julian chose the book club.

To make Garak stake his claim. 

_ This dizzying dance, my dear Doctor, is mine alone _ .

In all his not-quite-thirty years, Julian Bashir has never wanted to be possessed.

Or maybe he always has and is only now capable of admitting it.

Garak has changed everything.

****

Julian eats his evening meal alone in the Infirmary and imagines in precise detail just what he would have said at the replimat tomorrow had things not gone pear-shaped. He’s thought long and hard about Garak’s latest recommended read:  _ Death Rites for Gul Bosirm _ .

His critique of the dry tale soon gives way to other, more distracting, thoughts.

What if, instead of telling the lie about the book club, Julian had reached out and taken hold of Garak’s hand?

That would surely have goaded a response.

_ Right? _

****

“Up for a pint and a game of darts, Julian?” 

Miles O’Brien sticks his head around the corner of the office door five minutes before Julian’s shift is over.

A pint sounds great, darts less so. Calculated losing is trouble at the best of times. Today, Julian doesn’t know that he can plausibly throw his aim. He’s too distracted. The augmentations seem to assert themselves even more when he’s distracted.

“That's a look. Did a date cancel on you?”

Date? Julian has no date. Julian  _ wishes  _ he had a date. Replicated spaghetti,  _ Death Rites _ , and the face of his dearest companion.

“Miles, have you ever considered joining a book club?” Julian swivels his chair back to face the console. He hasn’t given an answer about the drink--he isn’t sure.

“ _ Book club _ ?” O’Brien responds as if the word personally offends him.

“A literature group?”

“I know what a book club is. Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought. Why? Were you thinking of starting one? Don’t you get enough plot-debating over lunch?”

He did. Before.

“Generally. But I fear my lunches with Garak might be a thing of the past.”

_ And why not compound the lie that begun all this by making it truth?  _

_ “ _ Well, Keiko might be interested. I can ask her. But honestly, Julian, I can't imagine a world in which Garak would give up his pursuit of you permanently. I’m sure he’ll come around.”

Julian flushes. 

He doesn't need a mirror to know it, he can feel the immediate heat in his cheeks and he’s glad he’s not facing his friend.

“ _ Pursuit _ .” Julian says this with the same level of incredulity O’Brien said ‘Book Club.’

Another P.

Pisssed, pasionate, penitent, possessive and now...  _ pursuit. _

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. No one’s  _ that  _ stupid, Julian.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

“No, really. Can’t say as I understand it, but you’ve willingly chosen to put yourself in his sights for years. Eating together, talking books--”

“Lots of people  _ eat together _ . Lots of people discuss books.” Julian turns back to his friend, desperate for the man to either retract his comments or double down.

_ I’m only winding ya up, Julian. Don’t be naive _ . Or  _ Anyone on the station can see what you can’t. He wants you. _

Instead, O’Brien shrugs. His mind is on his pint and that game of darts. 

“So, I’ll ask Keiko about that book club, when I see her. You coming to Quark’s or not?”

****


	2. In Which Julian’s Friends Try to Help, But Only Make Things Worse

It’s important to note that Julian is now slightly inebriated. Only slightly, though. Enough to make his thoughts less fluid than normal.  
  
He takes a sip of synthale and considers his options.   
  
And his lies.  
  
_And_ his friends.  
  
Jadzia Dax spots him and O’Brien from across the bar, gives him that knowing little  smirk of hers, and saunters over. Jadzia is a saunterer. All his friends move differently. Jadzia saunters, Miles marches, Garak…   
  
But Julian isn’t thinking about Garak. He is _pointedly_ thinking about Jadzia instead, furrowing his brow with the effort.  
  
Oh, how he used to love her.   
  
Well, not _love_ her, though when he was still painfully green he would have said so. Julian is now a proud shade of turquoise, maybe--which many people say is still green, but he’s always thought was more blue…  
  
There go his disordered thoughts again.  
  
What was he thinking about?  
  
_Not Garak_.  
  
Colors?  
  
Oh, friends! _His_ friends. Jadzia is his friend and he’s glad for it. She’s proven to be one of his very best--even if she pulls no punches.  
  
“That’s a look.” It’s the same thing O’Brien said to him not two hours ago. “Where's the optimistic Julian we all know and adore?”  
  
Jadzia pulls a chair up backward, butting it against the table. She crosses her arms on the backrest as she lowers herself, grinning, into the seat.  
  
“I could see that frown from across the Promenade.”  
  
“He thinks he's lost his Garak,” Miles says helpfully. Miles is also a bit tipsy.  
  
_His Garak._  
  
Oh, that sounds nice, doesn’t it? It isn’t _true_ , but then what is these days?  
  
“It isn't that.”  
  
“It is.”  
  
“I haven’t _lost him_. Only he is busy with a new fashion line. No time for book discussions. He’ll finish the project and we’ll be back to our...to our…”  
  
“Replimat dates?” Miles offers dryly.  
  
“ _I_ was going to say ‘dates,’” Jadzia agrees.  
  
Julian flushes and hurriedly presses on. “We’ll be back to _talking books_ in no time.”  
  
This is probably untrue.  
  
“Julian here wants to start a book club,” Miles says broadly, as if Julian hasn’t spoken.  
  
“A book club?” Jadzia repeats.  
  
Is it really such a foreign concept?  
  
“I don't actually--”  
  
“I reckon he’s feeling abandoned. No more heated debates about Cardassian literature.”  
  
“It wasn't always Cardassian--”  
  
“Or Shakespeare,” Miles and Jadzia say together.  
  
“Well,” Jadzia muses, motioning to Quark, who scurries to bring her a raktajino. The saunterer, the marcher, the scurrier. His friends, all. “I, for one, _love_ a good book discussion. We could meet here, say, weekly?”  
  
“Ah, and what are we meeting here for?” Quark’s ears hear everything--literally. He lingers as Jadzia samples the raktajino with a happy sigh. “Book club,” Miles says.  
  
For a moment Quark frowns, and Julian fully expects him to say _a book club?_ He glances up at the Ferengi and watches the cogs turn. _Is there profit potential?_ If anyone in the universe could find the financial benefit of a book club, it would be Quark.  
  
“We could bring in the authors,” he says slowly. “Think about it--coffee and a chat with the literary greats.”   
  
“Brilliant. If the great authors weren’t already dead.”  
  
Quark sweeps them all with a pitying look and Julian wonders how he puts up with the non-materialistic lot of them. “Now if only we had some sort of, oh, I don’t know, _holosuite_ technology to bring them to life? Somewhere cozy and quaint, where these literary giants could interact with fans of their work.”  
  
Jadzia’s grin broadens. “I have always wanted to meet Melville.”  
  
“Melville?” Julian can’t help but ask. “A whole galaxy of authors and you want to meet Melville?”  
  
“Or Virchan.”  
  
“You have terrible ideas, Jadzia.”  
  
“Doctor,” Quark chastises, “How can you be so narrow-minded? The lady wants to talk with Melville and Virchan? This is easily doable. All we need is a small--practically _miniscule_ \--down payment on the holosuites. In good faith to hold the room for a certain date and time.”  
  
“Right, right. There’s always a _fee_ with you, isn’t there Quark?” O’Brien asks. The Ferengi looks confused. _Of course_ there’s always a fee.  
  
“So, now we’re _paying you_ to hold the suite? In addition to the usual rental fee?  
  
“Adjusted for the number of people in your group, of course.”  
  
“Right. I don’t think so.”  
  
“You could always charge membership dues,” Quark replies helpfully. “To offset the cost of the room rental.”  
  
“What are we calling the club?” Jadzia asks brightly.  
  
“Well, it was Julian’s idea, so--”  
  
“It _isn’t_ my idea,” Julian says. “And why does a book club need a name? Or membership dues? Or--?”  
  
This is so much more complicated what he’d lost. With Garak, it had never been difficult. They each read the book the other had recommended, generally hated it, and came to the replimat with an arsenal of critique at the ready.   
  
During their replimat...encounters, not dates... there is no need to recreate authors in the holosuite. They are simply passionate about literature.  
  
It is nothing special.  
  
_It is incredibly special._  
  
Julian stands up, leaving his friends to hash out the details of a book club he has no interest in participating in.  
  
He wanders and considers returning to his quarters. But he likes it here.  
  
The sounds in this bar are as familiar to Julian as the Aldebaran operas that saw him through med school. Every time he has to find the right angle to set a bone,the second aria from _The Tides_ starts to weave its way through his mind. It’s like that with Quark’s, too.   
  
He can almost hum the melody of the clicking Dabo wheel, and the crescendo of cheers, a few bass notes in counterpoint for the groans that follow. There’s an undercurrent of conversation, murmurs, tawdry words being exchanged, deals being brokered, alliances being formed. The ebb and flow of communion. It’s warm and comforting and it fills in all the cracks in Julian’s thoughts as he approaches the dart board.  
  
He wasn’t going to play, was he? Yet as the darts fly-- _bullseye, bullseye, bullseye_ \--he can’t help but feel a little better.  
  
It’s all so mindless.  
  
What is he supposed to do?  
  
If Garak won’t acknowledge him, they can’t speak. If they don’t speak, Julian can’t apologize. If he can’t apologize, he can’t admit his lies. And God, if he can’t admit the lies, how can he possibly pull them back to that comfortable but not-wholly-satisfying way they were before?  
  
_Bullseye._  
  
_Bullseye._  
  
_Bullseye._  
  
Julian stumbles over to the dartboard and plucks his perfectly thrown darts from where they’ve perfectly landed.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Julian Bashir. Perfect.  
  
Except in all the ways that he’s not--which, unfortunately, is every single way that matters.  
  
He should check that he’s not being watched. If he is, he’ll have to concentrate and miss a few times.   
  
Julian glances over his shoulder, dart raised for another throw.  
  
He _is_ being watched.  
  
He doesn’t look at the board.  
  
The dart flies.  
  
Bullseye.  
  
Garak is standing near the bar with his measuring tape draped across his broad shoulders like an open tie. He seems oblivious to it--which means he’s either harried from a busy day, or, like Julian, he’s pretending.  
  
Maybe not.  
  
Garak’s usually perfectly smooth and controlled hair is a bit...messy. Julian imagines the tailor, while considering a new design, raking a frustrated hand through it. Strands turn up at odd angles.  
  
Julian likes this thought tremendously and he smiles.  
  
He shouldn’t have smiled.  
  
“Ah, so _this_ is your book club?”  
  
The other darts fall out of Julian’s hand and he hurries--stumbles--rights himself--and keeps hurrying to join Garak at the bar.  
  
“Hallo, Garak,” he says.  
  
_He’s speaking to you, Bashir_. _Now's the time to_ _admit your lies._  
  
Garak is waiting.  
  
Oh! The book club. Right.  
  
“Um, listen. About earlier today. I may have missp--”  
  
“Look, Bashir. I told you he wouldn't stay gone forever!” Stupid, big-mouthed O’Brien calls to them from the table. He nods at Garak who glances over, a mild expression on his face. It’s covering...something. Anger, most likely. Julian can tell that. Any other time he’d be pleased by his glimpse of these errant pieces of Garak: Those strands of hair, and that undercurrent of anger.   
  
This evening, he is not.  
  
“I suppose _these_ are the members of your group?” Garak asks casually, motioning to the table near the bar where Quark, Jadzia and Miles are shamelessly rubbernecking.  
  
Jadzia’s smile widens. “Our little club is already famous, Julian.”  
  
Garak approaches the table and Julian follows. “And just what book are you discussing?”  
  
The trio--his friends--all look to Julian to answer. Of course they do. They’ve decided this is _his_ grand plan. They think he has an itinerary and discussion questions ready and waiting.  
  
They do not realize how utterly important it is to dissolve the book club before it becomes, well, real.  
  
Julian doesn't know what to say.  
  
Admitting he lied means admitting...why.  
  
He's not sure he's ready for _Garak_ to know the why; he certainly doesn't want this lot hearing the truth.  
  
With discreet, economical movements, Garak straightens his hair and pulls the measuring tape from around his shoulders.   
  
Julian can see less and less of the anger. Garak tamps it down, hides it away.  
  
“Your club’s latest book?” Garak reminds him. “Something by a Cardassian, I believe you said? A title _I_ would be familiar with?”  
  
Miles pulls a face and mutters something under his breath that sounds like, _I thought we were reading Melville._ Julian tries to ignore him as he wracks his not-quite-sober brain for a title. But the only Cardassian literature he knows is what Garak has shared with him.  
  
“Ah, y-yes.”  
  
“And what’s the book, if you don’t mind my asking?”  
  
“The…” _Think, Bashir, think_. It’s what he’s supposed to be _good_ at. Thinking. “Death Rites...for...Gul…”  
  
It is the very worst thing he could have said.  
  
At Julian’s insensitive answer, Garak’s transformation is complete. He is now _plain, simple Garak_ and Julian Bashir is just another human on a cold Federation-run station.  
  
They are strangers.  
  
Garak wishes the group well, tells Julian to give his best to Mara and T’Le (Julian had forgotten even mentioning them earlier) and strolls back toward the Promenade.  
  
_Strolls_.  
  
That's how Garak walks.  
  
He does not have a care in the world.  
  
Certainly not one to spare for Julian.  
  
This is far, far worse than being hated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering who the hell Mara and T'Le are... Some rando ensigns. :) They are in another fic of mine too that I need to probably upload at some point.


	3. In Which Julian Eats the Chocolates and Oh No! Chronitons!

“Do you think there’s profit in ‘miserability?’” Julian asks Quark long after O’Brien has gone home to Keiko and Molly.

Quark’s sharp-toothed grin is telling. “There’s profit in most things, Doctor. Rule of Acquisition 22 says--”

“‘--hears profit in the wind.’”

“You  _ do  _ listen.”

“Sometimes,” Julian agrees, letting his head fall into the pillow he’s made with his arms. 

“If you fall asleep, I’m charging you lodging fees.”

“M’not asleep,” Julian slurs. “And what about my current ‘miserability?’ Do you hear profit on the wind, wise man?”

“Perhaps.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Well, your current heartbreak makes me think you might be interested in our reconciliation package.”

One bleary eye opens as Julian tries to follow. “Sounds like a holosuite program.”

“Well, we have  _ those  _ too,” Quark agrees. “But I’m suggesting a few tokens of--” 

“You don’t even know what’s wrong.”

“Right, right.” There’s a pause so long that Julian starts to dream he’s back at Academy and running  _ quite  _ late for a test. The sound of Quark’s voice startles him awake and he jerks up. “--certain Cardassian.”

What are they talking about again?

“A bottle of kanar, some chocolates--”

“Delavian?”

“Comparable.”

“Nothing compares to Delavian chocolate. And he’ll notice the difference. And say, ‘Why Doctor, how very kind of you to bring me  _ these _ .’ And I’ll know ‘these’ means ‘these  _ lesser _ chocolates.’ And it’ll be obvious from the way he carelessly sets them on the counter that he’s accepted them--but not as an apology. He’s taken the chocolates  _ as an insult _ . No, thank you.”

“The kanar?”

Julian considers this and his quite-far-gone mind decides the kanar is a very, very good plan. “Yes, the kanar. All the kanar. Ten bottles.”

“How about we start with one?”

“Five!”

“An interesting counter-offer. How about  _ one _ ?”

“Where’s the profit in  _ that _ ?” Julian slurs.

“No profit. But a bar of gold-pressed latinum says Odo’s hiding in here somewhere, just waiting for me to try and exploit the overly inebriated. He acts like exploitation is a bad thing.”

“...Seven bottles.”

“Right. So,  _ one _ then.”

“...Plus the chocolate.”

“Do you want flowers, too?”

****

Despite the dull thud of a hangover, Julian is feeling very pleased with himself this morning. 

He doesn’t know  _ why  _ he’s feeling pleased, particularly, but he is. He has the sense that he accomplished something brilliant last night.

He’s sure it had to do with Garak.

Julian replicates an analgesic for his head and sighs as the hypospray delivers immediate relief.

There are definite gaps in his memory from last night, but he feels certain he must have confidently carried kanar, chocolates, and flowers to Garak’s quarters where he then delivered a loquacious apology, explaining everything.

He’s also sure he’s been forgiven.

It isn’t until evening, when he returns to his quarters, that Julian finds the unopened bottle of kanar on his counter, along with a slew of chocolate wrappers and a wilted bouquet.

Julian considers the mess for a minute, picks up a chocolate, and pops it into his mouth.

****

A decision has been made!

He will not mope.

Only the hopeless  _ mope _ and Julian is not hopeless. He is tenacious and persistent.

He has options.

Rather, Julian doesn’t quite know what those options are yet--but he operates on the belief that options do exist. 

Plus, he still has that bottle of kanar meant for Garak.

While feeding the wilted flowers and the chocolate wrappers into the replicator for dematerialization, Commander Sisko pages him to Ops.

****

“Ah, Doctor,” Benjamin grins at him as the turbolift comes to a stop. “I was wondering--is your heart set on Melville?”  _ Melville?  _ The question must read on Julian’s face because Benjamin says, “Dax was telling me about your book club. She says you’re starting with Melville.”

“I thought it was some Cardassian rubbish?” O’Brien asks from near the transporter. He doesn’t look up from his work. Considering the array of tools and parts that are fanned out around him, Julian wouldn’t be surprised if the Chief has disassembled a runabout and is now trying to put it back together in the middle of Ops.

“We’re not--” Julian starts to say.  _ Reading anything _ .

“I thought you might be taking requests. There’s a  _ fascinating  _ new biography about Buck Bokai I just read. Most of the source material is from the previously unpublished journals of a reporter who traveled with the London Kings and--”

No one’s face lights up like Benjamin Sisko’s when he’s talking baseball.

Julian shifts uncomfortably. “Well, it  _ does _ sound interesting, sir.”

It doesn’t really sound interesting.

“Hey now!” Jadzia says passionately. “You told me we could read Melville first--”

“I did?”

“That’s not exactly how I remember it,” O’Brien offers helpfully. “Though I don’t know why I’m arguing. Anything beats reading  _ The Something Something of Gul Whoever _ .”

“ _ Death Rites for Gul Bosirm _ .” Julian sighs.

“Oh, Doctor,” Sisko says in a deeply disapproving voice. “Surely you can’t be serious?”

“I’m not,” Julian says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not serious. I’m not serious at all!”

“I  _ might _ be willing to read Sisko’s book first,” Jadzia concedes slowly. “But only if we take Quark up on his holosuite offer when we get to my book.”

“ _ Why  _ are you so obsessed with Melville?” Julian is more than a little frustrated at his inability to shut down the crew’s newfound desire to  _ read  _ together. What happened to normal after-hours activities?

“Great. White.  _ Whale _ ,” Jadzia says, seemingly confident that these three words explain everything.

“This is hopeless.”

****

_ Has everyone lost their minds? _

Especially  _ Miles _ , who doesn’t even  _ want  _ to be part of the club, but is so dead set against reading Cardassian literature--which he  _ wouldn’t have to read even if the group were real!-- _ that he’s infiltrated their ranks just so he can have a vote.

Ah,  _ and _ Jadzia. Her stupid great white whale.

_ Curzon adored  _ Moby-Dick.  _ Think about the  _ obsession _ , Julian _ .  _ A life spent in the pursuit of revenge. The Trill have a similar story--but it obviously spans the lives of several hosts, not just the one.  _

“Doctor. A word, if I may?”

Julian is almost back to his quarters when he hear’s Odo’s gruff request. He stops and turns, tetchy from this mess of his own making and snaps, “What is it? Have you come to criticize my book choices as well? Let me tell you, Constable--”

“Book choices?” Odo is as impassive as ever. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh.”

“I was wondering if you noticed anything... _ unusual _ ...during your examinations of the crew of the Beilladun?”

Thank goodness! Something  _ not  _ related in any way to authors, their works, or any one title a mythical book club should (or should not) read first.

“The Vrier?”

A nomadic peoples from some far-flung corner of the Gamma quadrant. They are a lithe, dark-haired race, with distant eyes and expressions even more difficult to read than Odo’s. Julian learned quickly that the Vrier do not mince words. Their vocabulary contains about one hundred thousand fewer words than Federation Standard and has no adjectives or adverbs.

“Bioscans turned up traces of chroniton radiation.”

Julian’s eyes widen. “Chroniton radiation? Really? None of the Vrier I examined showed any signs of exposure. Though…”

He thinks back to the haughty group.

“ _ Though _ ?” Odo does not have time for prevarication and taps a foot impatiently. 

Why does he even bother frowning? Why not morph a permanent scowl into his features? It would save time.

“There was a young male with the group--I didn’t exactly get to examine him.”

“Didn’t ‘exactly?’ Go on.”

“They seemed...protective of him. I tried to explain that it’s standard procedure, but--”

“The Vrier overpowered you? Incapacitated you in some way?”

“Not...exactly.”

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t need to. Let me guess? You were distracted about your little spat with Garak and the young man simply slipped away?”

Little spat with--?

“Close your mouth, Bashir. Your face says more in one guilty look than the Vrier do in a lifetime.”

****


	4. In Which Julian Offers a Massage and Garak is Suspicious About Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I made you wait, please enjoy a double-long chapter! <3

It’s late and Julian can’t decide what he wants to do. He knows he’s not ready for bed, but he’s not exactly up for another night of drinking.

He could play some racquetball.

Or Parrises Squares.

Springball maybe.

But Julian doesn’t like playing against holographic opponents. He can program their difficulty, matching his own perfect aim, but those photonic projections can never match the unpredictability of a sentient being. There’s something less than satisfying about it.

He catches a glimpse of color--a blur really--but somewhere in the tangled web of his neurons, he recognizes that it’s Garak walking ahead of him.

It shouldn’t surprise Julian to see Garak.

The station isn’t _that_ large.

They used to run into each other all the time.

Oh, but Julian had taken that for granted.

He starts after Garak, his long-legged stride making short work of the corridor. His Cardassian friend has a nasty habit of melting into the shadows, and, by rounding the corner ahead of Julian, Garak already has the advantage.

Julian doesn’t have much room for pride--he’ll call out for Garak if he has to.

As he picks up the pace, Julian almost barrels headlong into Garak who has stopped and is waiting for him, just past the corner.

Garak offers him the most infuriatingly banal tilt of the head.

“Doctor.”

“Garak!” Oh, he says that very loudly, doesn’t he? Where’s his suave and his cool? Probably the same place it’s always been--if only he knew where the hell that was. He clears his throat and smiles. “Garak,” he tries again. “How _are_ you?”

“Fine, fine. And yourself?”

A conversation.

They’re having a conversation!

Julian smiles, he can’t help himself--and for a fraction of a fraction of a moment, Garak seems to uncoil. It’s a small thing, really, but his gaze flickers to Julian’s lips and then up to look in his eyes. It makes Julian smile wider.

If only he can say the _exact_ right thing.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“Oh?”

He’s ready to invite Garak to share the bottle of kanar--and yes, he will abide the horrid stuff if it means Garak will sit down and drink with him--when Major Kira appears.

Talk about hiding in shadows.

Where did she come from?

He knows instinctually that she is coming _for him_. It’s something in the way she strides, so arrow-straight, toward him that gives her away. Before she’s even reached them, she calls to him.

Garak stiffens again, almost as if he, too, senses doom on the recycled station air.

“Oh, Julian? I know I haven't been _formally_ invited to join the club but--”

She has a book suggestion _dammit._ They _all_ have book suggestions.

The entire galaxy has book suggestions.

He’s realized something: the Prophets _hate_ Julian Bashir. It has to be the reason this continues to happen to him. Somehow, at some point in the timeline, and completely without his remembering it, Julian must have walked up to the viewport and flipped off the Wormhole.

That or someone has replicated another one of those gambling devices and Julian’s luck has been pilfered.

Or...instead of speaking plainly about his...feelings? Yes, almost certainly _feelings_...for Garak, he went and told a very stupid lie.

But Garak lies _constantly._

It’s in his very DNA to lie.

As often as possible.

And to Julian.

But...not necessarily maliciously.

And the book club lie _isn’t_ supposed to be malicious, but Lord, how it’s turned out that way.

“ _Please, Garak!”_ It's a desperate plea from a desperate man who doesn't know what else to say.

Garak is walking away, but Julian can’t let him. He’s already walked away too many times over the last few days.

Without even acknowledging the petite and fiery Major Kira, Julian _runs_ after Garak and grabs his shoulder. The movement stops him and elicits an almost imperceptible jump. It is as if all Garak’s atoms surge and Bashir, in contact with him, can feel the atomic shift.

He should pull his hand away.

But he can’t.

He _won’t_.

He presses his fingers down just that much harder, ready to say _something_ to once again, clumsily, try to right this.

“Garak?

Garak remains still and Julian has completely forgotten that Kira is playing witness to their encounter.

“You are very _tense_.”

It sounds like a _line! Oh!_ But that isn’t what he means at all. “Only that...medically speaking...you seem tight. Tense! _Your shoulders_. More so, than normal. Not that I know what ‘normal’ is for you, really.” He laughs a little too brightly and groans inside. “You do like to avoid your physical.”

Garak cuts his eyes over at Julian without a flicker of movement of his head.

Julian carries on like a doofus, because Julian _is_ a doofus.

“You might carry a similar tension if you were currently working a _rush_ order at the behest of the mother of a Klingon opera diva.”

“Oh.”

“Surely you can imagine, Doctor. Any one of those descriptors is enough to give a man a headache.”

Julian thinks about this for a moment and then he decides to go for broke. After all, he’s down to his proverbial last credit anyway.

“You shouldn’t let that tension go unchecked. A massage would do wonders.”

Major Kira throws her hands up in the air in exasperation and he doesn’t know if it’s a reaction to his clumsy, blatant offer or because he hasn’t let her recommend a book.

****

Julian has only been in Garak’s quarters a few times before. Nerves accompany him.

He awkwardly moves his way around the sparsely furnished room.

Has Garak taken him up on the offer of a massage?

Julian has provided medical massage for his patients before--manual manipulation of the joints, soft, and deep tissues--but never in someone’s quarters. This is something that should take place in the Infirmary.

Garak is not making it easy.

He’s leaning against the wall, watching Julian pace.

They should talk.

“You can’t stay mad with me forever, Garak.”

Garak’s lips twitch almost imperceptibly.

“Well, right, you _can_. But it isn’t _fair_.”

Julian is making his third circuit around the spartan couch when he sees it.

He’s seeing _lots_ of things this evening.

There, almost obscured beneath the edge of the couch, is a flower petal.

It's a very unusual shade-- A sunset orange that sublimates into purple, pink, and blue. Julian picks it up and examines it curiously.

It is wilted but not yet dry.

“This is…?”

“It appears to be a flower petal.”

“Right. From a plant that blooms on Parada II, if I’m not mistaken.”

“My, you do know your botanicals, Doctor.”

“Not really,” Julian says, holding out the petal. “It’s only that I acquired a bouquet of these flowers for someone...recently.”

“Recently, you say?” Garak plucks the petal from Julian’s hand and considers it with as little outward interest as he’s given anything of late.

“ _I_ was here, wasn’t I? Last night? I thought I might have...stopped by. Did I?” Julian looks up at Garak, searching his face for answers. “With a bottle of kanar and…?”

“Flowers,” Garak agrees. “Chocolates as well.”

“You passed up the chocolate,” Julian says, his brow furrowing. “I knew it wouldn’t be good enough.”

“On the contrary, I’m sure it was a lovely treat. If you had let go of the box, I might have tried a piece. When I returned you to your quarters, you insisted on taking your gifts with you. Who was I to argue? You were quite inebriated.”

Julian groans. He’s apparently petulant when he’s drunk.

“Did I…?” Julian wishes he hadn’t been so plastered last night. He’d give anything to remember even a little of what he’d done. “Did I _say_ anything?”

“Oh yes,” Garak agrees, rolling the petal between his fingers until it becomes an ugly, mushy ball of smeared pigment and flower bits. “Many, many things.”

Julian takes a deep breath.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to _tell_ me what I said?”

“Now, what would be the fun in that?”

“Did I… Did I apologize at least?”

“Profusely and at great length,” Garak says.

“And?”

“And I forgive you, Doctor. You are _forgiven_.”

For his tone, Garak could have as easily said, _you are not now, nor will you ever be, forgiven_.

“The book club was never real, Garak.” He cringes as he says this, but it’s all gone _far enough_ . “I made it _all_ up.”

A cool smile curls Garak’s lips as he drops the petal mush to the carpet. “Not _real_ , you say?”

“No, it’s an invention. A fabrication. A lie. _I made it all up_.”

“Ah.”

“You don’t believe me.”

He thinks Julian is lying about...lying!

“I believe that you feel you’ve caused me some great offense. I assure you, this isn’t correct.”

“Fine. You aren’t offended. You aren’t using your Klingon opera diva client and her mother as an excuse to avoid me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I _lied_ about the book club.”

“Setting aside the popularity of this _fictional_ book club-- To what end? To what end did you ‘lie?’”

Julian flushes-- _to get you to pay attention to me._ He can’t possibly say something so juvenile out loud.

“I-- I thought... _maybe_...we could discuss more than books, Garak.”

There! Read between _those_ lines, Cardassian.

Julian knows Garak operates on the belief that he has given Julian _all_ he needs in order to understand who he is--to understand his history, his time with the Obsidian Order, his plans for Cardassia; all he needs to separate his lies from the truth.

Garak can damn well do some puzzling of his own.

“Doctor--”

“ _Julian_.”

“Julian. If there’s an insult to be had, it’s that you think there needs to be _more than book discussion_.”

This makes Julian angry.

Very, very angry.

So far he’s had his apology rejected, his truths dismissed as lies, and now his interests rebuked.

“Well then,” Julian says stiffly, turning to leave.

“You are infuriating.” It’s the most direct thing Garak has said to him since long before the book club lie slipped past Julian’s lips.

“ _I’m_ infuriating?” Julian rounds on him. “You fancy a bit of book talk? We’ll talk books! _Funeral Rites for Gul Bosirim_ is the most pedantic, self-important, piece of propaganda I have _ever_ read. Even for Cardassian literature, it was torture to get through.”

“Torture,” Garak repeats. “Unlike your _Fahrenheit 451_?”

“How can you _possibly_ think _Fahrenheit 451_ is torture?” Julian frowns deeply. “See! There! We’ve had our daily literary argument--now I’m leaving!”

Julian isn’t leaving.

He isn’t leaving because Garak’s strong grip is on his arm.

He isn’t leaving because even if Garak weren’t holding on to him, _he_ would be holding on to Garak.

He isn’t leaving because he doesn’t want to leave.

“There is nothing more honest than our lunchtime discussions,” Garak says quietly.

“Right, right. Well, forgive me for being interested in… in more than that.”

“ _More_. More, more, more! That’s the battle cry of the human race, isn’t it? I’m giving you _all of me,_ Doctor, and still that’s not enough.”

“I’m sorry, Garak, but that’s… _horse shit_.” He doesn’t often curse--the Academy drilled it out of him years ago. But this is all a steaming, heaping pile of horse shit.

Garak raises an eye ridge.

“Such an articulate response.”

“I’m not feeling very _articulate_.”

Even an outside observer wouldn’t necessarily have been able to recount who moved first, who took hold of the other, who pressed in for the kiss.

All an outsider would see is the desperation.

The hunger.

The need.

Julian and Garak are starving for one another.

“The book club isn't real,” he whispers between the frantic dance of lips on lips.

In all his life, Julian has never, ever, _ever_ been kissed like this. He gives as good as he gets.

It’s nothing like he imagined--and everything he wanted.

“Did you settle on a book yet? I hear Commander Sisko’s choice is currently leading in votes.”

Julian groans as he clings to Garak, feels Garak clinging to him.

“How--?”

“You’ve read _Dance of Duty_.” Garak trails kisses along Julian’s jaw, his neck, digs a finger into the constricting collar of Julian’s uniform.

“...You bugged my quarters?”

“That would be a terrible violation of your privacy,” Garak says and lets out a long, deep groan as Julian claws at his neck ridges.

“I--”

 _“Odo to Bashir_.”

No.

No no no.

_No! Why?_

No.

_“Bashir, respond.”_

Trying to get his breath under control, Julian reluctantly taps his combadge.

“B-Bashir here.”

_“Doctor, I believe I’ve located the young Vrieran boy.”_

“Who?”

He can feel Garak smiling against his neck.

Odo grunts disapprovingly. “The one who avoided examination. Chroniton radiation?”

“Duty calls,” Garak says, his voice a low rumble.

Julian very lightly digs his fingers into Garak’s neck ridges, just to see the other writhe.

“Meet me at the replimat tomorrow?”

“As tempting an offer as that is, Doctor--”

“ _Julian_.”

“--Julian. I do still have the Klingon diva and her mother.”

“At least come by the Infirmary and get that massage. As your physician, I insist.”

As he leaves Garak’s quarters, Julian smooths his hair and his collar, and scrubs his face, trying to hide what just happened with Garak from the rest of the station. Nothing he does can wipe the smile from his lips, though.


	5. Interlude: Garak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my pup chewed through the laptop cord. But no worries! A new cord is on its way and in the meantime I went ahead and wrote a tiny, but important, Garak interlude on my phone.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Well_.

Garak certainly wasn't expecting _that._

Of course, he isn't displeased.

On the contrary, it's the unpredictability of the doctor that makes him such a fascinating companion.

Garak slowly moves around his quarters, straightening items by degrees.

He meticulously removes any trace that the doctor--that _Julian_ \-- was ever here.

This is a necessary task.

He's done it once before-- after his cranial implant stopped operating. Such an unpleasant and...complicated...time. Through all his misery, Bashir stayed with Garak in his quarters.

There'd been so much to clean up then.

Less to do now.

Garak picks up the crushed bit of flower petal he dropped on the carpet earlier and makes quick work disposing of it.

There. The last remnant, gone.

Now there's nothing left of the captivating human who has so taken Garak by surprise.

Nothing that can be readily seen at a glance, at least.

But the taste of Julian Bashir still lingers on Garak's lips. A tea and honey flavor, left behind by a wicked mouth.

If he doesn't indulge the desire to run his tongue over his lips every time the whim strikes him, Garak might be able to savor the flavor for hours.

And there's another something-- easily found should one be so inclined to search thoroughly.

 A single flower blossom-- chosen last night from a battered bouquet-- is currently being pressed and dried between the pages of a heavy Cardassian book.


	6. In Which the Love Kickstarts Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I got a new laptop cord! Yaaaaay!)
> 
> I borrowed the title from "Kickstarts (Bar 9 Remix)" by Example. Some pretty awesome dubstep. Check it out!
> 
> Also, temporal distortions make everything nuts, guys.
> 
> Also-also this chapter is one hundred billion words long. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The Vrieran boy does not trust Julian-- that’s obvious. Despite his best assurances that it won’t hurt, that it’s only a medical scanner, that he wants to _help_ \-- Julian’s young patient squirms and fights and bolts from him any time Julian tries to get near.

Short of chasing the boy or asking Odo to hold him down, he’s not sure how he’s going to take these readings.

There’s a reason Julian didn’t go into pediatrics. It isn’t that he doesn’t like children--he likes them perfectly fine. But Julian is always more comfortable when he can _reason_ with his patients.

He runs down a mental checklist of everything he’s learned about the Vrier since they arrived on the station. The lights are set at a level that should be relaxing for the boy, he’s got the computer playing a recording of a storm, complete with the patter of rain and low rumblings of distant thunder. If there is anything else he can do to calm the boy, he has yet to learn about it.

“You! Do not touch him!” One of the Vrieran women appears in the doorway. She glides across the floor toward them so fast that Odo’s hand drops reflexively to rest on his sidearm. His concern is understandable, but hopefully this situation can be resolved without phaser fire.

Her expression is blank, her eyes lightless, but her tone is angry. She is the embodiment of every ghost story he’s ever heard and it’s all he can do not to cower away from her. Julian forces himself to take command of the situation, despite her unsettling countenance.

“Madam,” he says in his calmest CMO voice, “I assure you--”

How many times has he said _I assure you_? since assuming his post here on DS9?

“Do not touch him.”

“If he’s been exposed to chroniton radiation--”

“He has not.” Her words are clipped and final. There’s no embellishment, no exaggeration in the Vrieran language. What these people mean to say, they say--nothing more and nothing less. That doesn’t mean they don’t lie, only that their lies are concise.

He thinks of Garak’s twisting, winding lies and somehow, the thought comforts him.

“You’ve let us examine every member of your ship-- except this boy.” Julian reminds her. “Why?”

“It is not necessary.”

The boy looks between Julian and the woman. Who is she to him? His mother? An aunt? Or a random female adult from the ship? They know very little about these people, but they seem to subscribe to the _it takes a village_ mentality. The boy has been well-protected since the Vrier arrived-- and never by the same person.

“I feel it _is_ necessary, as does our chief of security. Listen, chronitons themselves aren’t harmful to you,” Julian says. “Unless you exist outside of time. Which you don’t.”

She continues to stare at him unnervingly.

“The most likely source would be a cloaking device, say, like what’s used on a Romulan warbird. Constable, is the Vrieran ship equipped with cloaking technology?”

“Not that we can tell.” Odo grunts.

“Barring that, we’re looking at a temporal _event_ of some sort. A rift, explosion, incursion, a _weapon_ even. If the boy’s been exposed to temporal radiation--”

“He has not.”

She’s so absolute in the way she says this that Julian knows she’s lying. _Something_ happened on that ship, and his uncooperative patient is the key.

With a nod from Odo, Julian reaches out and gently takes the boy’s arm. At the same time the woman’s face contorts and she yells, “No!”

Ah, so they _can_ make facial expressions.

It’s the last thing he thinks before…

It feels as if he’s being simultaneously teleported somewhere and catapulted across the universe. For a moment, while he can still _feel_ , Julian has the uncanny and horrifying sense of his entire being breaking down piece by piece -- a fizzling away of self until he is nothing more than specks of Julian Bashir and then just thought… And then… energy…

Every moment of Julian’s existence thus far is compressed down into a single experience of time -- he’s having his first kiss and receiving Kukalaka and graduating Academy and being conceived and meeting Garak and breaking up with Palis and winning his third tennis tournament and being genetically altered and failing an exam on purpose and playing darts and singing in the sonic shower and kissing everyone he’s ever kissed and saving every life he’s ever saved and eating every meal he’s ever eaten and…

Then he’s here.

Julian blinks hard, as if he just stepped off a shuttle into the blinding light of the Risian suns.

Except it's much darker here than most places on the station and definitely much darker than Risa.

“ _Doctor?_ ”

Julian turns to find Garak leaning against the wall. He does not look pleased. His arms are crossed over his chest and, without turning his head, he's cut his eyes toward Julian in a surprisingly impatient way.

“What...What was I saying again?”

He has the weirdest sense of having forgotten something important. He’s walked into this moment and he can’t remember _why_ or _what_ he’s looking for.

Julian knows he’s here-- _in Garak’s quarters!_ \--for a reason--an important one even, but he can’t remember what that reason is.

How long has he been standing here, zoned out like this?

“‘You can’t stay mad with me forever, Garak,’” Garak reminds him of his own words.

That’s right… Garak is mad with him…

About…?

“The book club!” Julian says and shakes his head. “Well, right, you _can_ stay mad at me, but it’s not really _fair_ , is it?”

The words slide from his lips without any thought.

It’s like reading a script...but adlibbing some of it.

_Julian walks stage right, circling the couch three times. On the third pass he stops and spots--_

Before he even looks down, Julian has the strangest sense that he’s going to find something important underneath the edge of Garak’s couch.

He glances at it and frowns.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Doctor?” Garak asks mildly. “We could always do this another time if you’d like.”

_Do this?_

Do what? What is it they’re doing?

Julian kneels beside Garak’s couch and draws out a sunset-orange flower petal with purple, pink, and blue markings. He’s seen it before. Yes, on that silly bouquet of flowers he brought by Garak’s quarters last night--but also…

Just…

 _Before_.

“I’ve been here before.”

“Once or twice,” Garak agrees and Julian looks up at him. The Cardassian seems to loom though he hasn’t moved an inch from his place against the wall.

Why is Garak mad at him?

The book club? But they resolved that, didn’t they?

Or...no.

“No, I mean… last night? I guess? I brought you flowers. Quark sold them to me. A bouquet of flowers from Parada II.”

Garak finally moves, slowly pushing off the wall, walking over to Julian and plucking the petal from between his fingers. The action is so familiar to Julian.

He studies the petal for a moment as if inspecting a piece of lint.

“You brought chocolates as well,” Garak reminds him.

“But I didn’t let you eat any,” Julian whispers, slowly standing. “Garak, I’ve _been here_ before.”

“I think we’ve established that fact.”

A ringing starts in Julian’s ears-- it’s a low sound, barely noticeable at first, but quickly rising in pitch and volume. And then pain becomes the ringing’s companion. Julian winces and reaches for his head.

“We _kissed_.”

Even with his eyes shut tight he knows he’s startled Garak-- the almost imperceptible intake of breath and the way he steps back. Julian grunts and presses his palms to his temples.

The ringing is distractingly loud now.

“We did. We fought about...books...and then we kissed.” The pain swells as memories come back to him in a slow-moving flood. They are like the after images of a half-forgotten dream. He _may_ have dreamed some of them, even! But not everything…

Julian is certain he didn’t dream the way Garak’s lips are so smooth and cool, and yet his mouth is so warm. He didn’t dream the way Garak clung to him or the way he dug his nails into Garak’s shoulders and made the Cardassian groan.

“I can assure you, my dear Doctor--”

“ _Julian_.” He grunts the name for either the first or the hundredth time.

“I can assure you, _Julian_ , had we engaged in that particularly activity, I would not be quick to forget it.”

The ringing is so loud now that Garak’s voice has become a tiny hum in the painful sea of sound.

And then there’s nothing.

No pain.

No sound.

Just the feeling of the last twenty-four hours being compressed until his head is full of Garak and book clubs and book selections and Garak. Books and Garak, books and Garak, books and--

And Julian forces his eyes open.

Garak isn’t there.

But neither is Julian.

Not _there_ anyway.

Now he’s over by Garak’s computer. His vision is blurred and his equilibrium is off. He’s holding...flowers… He looks down at the bouquet. He’s crushed them.

Shit.

These are for Garak.

He got them for some reason.

To make things better, he thinks.

Are things better?

The sad, crumpled flowers seem to say no.

“What was I saying?” The words are slippery and he slurs them. He’s having the damndest time remembering anything. “Am I drunk?”

“Quite,” Garak says. He sounds amused.

Julian turns to him, almost loses his balance.

The tailor is wearing button-down pajamas in a flattering shade of green.

“Garak?”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I assure you, everything is fine. ‘Dandy,’ even, one might say.”

“No, no, it’s not. I’m not sure how I got so...drunk.”

“I’d guess by drinking,” Garak muses. “Don’t worry. It will pass.”

It will pass…

It _will_ pass.

Tomorrow he’s going to wake up and go to Garak’s quarters on the pretense of offering a massage. Tomorrow they are going to kiss.

“C’mere,” Julian demands, his confidence bolstered by synthehol.

When it seems like Garak won’t comply, Julian starts to walk to him, catches one foot against the other, and stumbles to the ground.

With careful movements, Garak lowers himself down next to Julian. “You’re quite the danger to yourself when you’ve had too much to drink.”

Julian reaches out for him, misses, reaches again and manages to hook his arm around Garak’s shoulders.

“You’ve got to stop avoiding me, Garak. You’ve got to tell me the truth about things.”

“Things?”

Julian looks up at Garak but he can hardly see him. He’s too drunk and his head hurts too much. “Yes, Garak! _Things_ ! Literature and-and-and _us_ , and kissing and time travel.”

“Oh, you’re quite a bit farther gone than I imagined. Are you sure you didn’t nip into the kanar--just a bit--before you got here?”

Oh, his damn tongue.

He can’t make Garak understand.

He can’t outwit him in this state.

He tries to pull Garak closer but the Cardassian doesn’t budge. Instead, Julian collapses against him. They bump foreheads.

“The book club is a _lie_ , Garak,” Julian says. “I know you know this. I already _told_ you this. I think?”

He can feel the whisper of Garak’s breath against his face--cool and steady. Mostly steady. They are so close to one another. It would be so easy to repeat what happened--what _will_ happen?--earlier (later?) between them.

It would be so easy to share another kiss.

But the moment is wrested from him.

And suddenly he has that feeling of being slingshot again-- of breaking down into the tiny moments that make up Julian Bashir. Except instead of becoming one single event, his whole life--every second--flashes before him sequentially in a blinding blur of life experience. He is flung forward, transported, through his personal history and back to the infirmary. 

Julian drops to his knees just as the Vrieran woman snatches the young boy away from him.

“Doctor!”

Heart pounding, ears ringing, head muddled and painful, Julian gasps, “What the hell just happened to me?”

  
****


	7. In Which Some Less Than Authentic Cardassian Literature Is Explored

“‘There’s nowhere to run, Legate Zuror. Soon, everyone will know about your crimes against the Cardassian people.’  
  
‘ _My_ crimes? I’ve done nothing but serve my planet faithfully these many long years. _You_ are an outsider--an _alien_. What decent citizen of Cardassia would take your word over mine?’  
  
‘No one,’ Terrak said. ‘Except perhaps Nalla.’  
  
‘You _bastard._ You leave my daughter out of this!’”  
  
She’s reading in a pretty passable Cardassian voice. It’s tinged with arrogant superiority and barely controlled rage. He guesses the other character--Terrak--is supposed to be Vulcan.  
  
For a moment, Julian considers pretending to be asleep and letting her continue. The story reads like Terran literature. As if the author has watched one too many holovids and has never actually met someone from another planet.  
  
But as interesting as the writing is, other curiosities arise.  
  
Where is he? What’s happened to him? Why does he feel so dreadful?  
  
One eye cracks open.  
  
It’s as if Keiko O’Brien can hear his eyelids part. She stops mid-sentence and sets the PADD aside.  
  
“Julian?”  
  
He couldn’t guess what day it is but he might have figured out _where_ he is. Slowly he looks around and grins weakly.  
  
It seems he has taken over Molly O’Brien’s room, if the blue and purple decor and the hand-drawn picture of Flotter hanging on the wall are any indication.  
  
“What’s going on?” His mouth is dry and the words come out thick and sticky.   
  
Without hesitation, Keiko stands and hurries from the room. In the next moment, he hears her command the replicator, “Water. Seven degrees celsius.” There’s the telltale whoosh of matter replicating.  
  
She’s back before he can even form his next thought, helping prop him up just enough to drink without spilling water everywhere. The cool liquid is delicious and he gulps it down.  
  
“Slowly. _Slowly,_ Julian,” she insists. “How are you feeling?”  
  
The lights are low in the room, but he can still see the concern on her face.  
  
“I...don’t know what was a dream and what’s...real.”  
  
It’s a strange response, but the only one he’s got to explain how he feels. Julian is having the damndest time holding onto the individual moments of his life. What’s really happened? He doesn’t know. Everything he remembers is shifting and fuzzy, as if created in a dream.  
  
“...Garak?”  
  
Should he even be asking about Elim Garak? He doesn’t know the current status of his relationship with the Cardassian tailor-and-probably-spy.  
  
Are they acquaintances?  
  
Colleagues?  
  
Lunch companions?  
  
Friends?  
  
...Something more?  
  
Did he dream...all of that…?  
  
He flushes at the rush of possible-memory and very real longing.  
  
Scientifically speaking--there’s nothing at all to be _embarrassed about_. Garak is important to him-- _he thinks_. If that piece of his memory is true, then Garak is a constant source of intrigue, of mystery-- someone with secrets far greater than his own.  
  
It follows that Julian might dream about him.  
  
“He came by,” Keiko assures him, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand like a mother gauging a child’s temperature. “But he didn’t stay long.” A frown creases her brow. “You know how rude Miles can be sometimes.”  
  
“I thought O’Brien was… all right… with Garak?” He’s guessing, trying to see what puzzle pieces fit.  
  
“Oh, he is--as much as he’ll ever be. But he’s been on edge. He’d never admit it, but he’s been worried about you.”  
  
“Why is he…?”  
  
“Do you remember _anything_ , Julian?” she prompts him. “About what happened last week?”  
  
_Last week_?  
  
Stray memories float to the surface.  
  
Or dream fragments.  
  
Or bits of imagination.  
  
He’s not sure.  
  
But he can’t tell Keiko O’Brien about them, now can he? _Especially_ when he doesn’t even know if any of them are real.  
  
When he doesn’t answer, she says, “There was an accident in the Infirmary. You were treating a patient when you collapsed. You’ve been in and out of consciousness for about a week.”  
  
“Why am I _here_? Why not the Infirmary?”  
  
“When it became clear your condition was stable-- Well, Miles and I volunteered to look after you.”  
  
“Meaning I was taking up a biobed and Nurse Jabara kicked me out.” He grins wryly. “I always thought she was after my job.”  
  
Keiko returns his smile. “Must be that. Which reminds me.” Once again, she’s up--an efficient nurse in her own right. Motherhood must have trained her for this. She walks over to the wall and taps the computer console. “Infirmary? This is Keiko O’Brien.”  
  
“Go ahead, Mrs. O’Brien.”  
  
“Dr. Bashir is awake. Could someone--?”  
  
“We’ll be right there.”  
  
Julian heaves a heavy sigh and starts to sit up before Keiko flies back to his side and forces him down. “Don’t you dare move.”  
  
“I’m perfectly capable of walking to the Infirmary.” He’s not sure if this is true, but he’s embarrassed to be cared for. He’s spent _years_ caring for everyone else-- being the patient is almost intolerable. “Besides, Molly will want her bed back.”  
  
He wiggles his feet--which are dangling off the end of the bed--for emphasis.  
  
“ _Molly_ is visiting friends on Bajor. Every evening, when she calls to say good night, she tells me that she hopes her ‘Uncle Julian’ will get better soon. She also asked me to tell you when you wake up that you’re allowed to play with her dolls. If you want.”  
  
Keiko is still pushing firmly on his shoulder and Julian finally allows himself to sink back into the mattress.  
  
“Well, when you put it like that--”  
  
“Good. I appreciate a compliant patient. Now, do you want to hear more of the book? I can start over from the beginning if you like.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
The chime sounds from the living room and Keiko--up down, up down, up down--is once again on her feet. “Our book club selection.”  
  
No.  
  
Nonononono.  
  
Of _all_ the stupid pieces of reality to, well, _be_ reality!  
  
Not the _book club_.  
  
Julian heaves an unhappy sigh and readies himself for Jabara’s heavy-handed examination. But it isn’t the Bajoran nurse that appears in the doorway with Keiko. It’s Garak.  
  
All right, if the book club is real, does that mean what happened between him and Garak is real too?  
  
“Hello, Doctor.”  
  
He is, as ever, completely unreadable. Julian frowns deeply.  
  
“This...might not be the best time,” Julian says, though secretly he wants nothing more than for the handsome Cardassian to stay nearby. “Nurse Jabara is--”  
  
“On her way here, I assume. I can wait. That is, if--” he inclines his head ever so slightly to Keiko, “--it’s all right with you, Mrs. O’Brien.”  
  
“Of course. Would you like something to drink while we wait? Red leaf tea?”  
  
Garak smiles and nods. “That would be delightful.”  
  
She disappears, leaving Julian and Garak alone. Considering how quickly and efficiently she’s been moving since he awoke, she’ll surely be gone only a nanosecond.  
  
Julian has so many questions--it would take hours for Garak to satisfactorily answer them all. Hours, or at least a few very _passionate_ minutes of privacy.  
  
“I’m having trouble remembering...things...Garak,” Julian says in a weak rush. He reaches for the water Keiko left on the bedside table and is surprised when Garak sweeps in to assist him. His ministrations are not nearly so tender as Keiko’s were, but his hands are strong and Julian--rightly or wrongly--enjoys the feeling of being held up.   
  
“I’d be happy to refresh your memory,” Garak says, the usual cryptic tone in his voice accompanied by a mysterious twinkle in his eye.  
  
“I…”   
  
_Did we kiss? Or did I go back in time and somehow_ change _that kiss? Erase it by mentioning it to Past You, Garak, before it happened? Or did I make up this whole kissing business?_  
  
He asks none of that. Instead, he blurts his default doofus response, “Did I fabricate a story about a book club last week?”  
  
Julian stares at Garak--waiting for some sign.   
  
Garak offers him a small smile and Julian’s heart flip-flops. It isn’t an answer--or rather it’s a _Garak-Patented Non-Answer_ \--but he’ll take it.  
  
****  
  
“‘Don’t you understand you’ve driven me to this place, Nalla? It’s _your_ hand on this phaser, your finger on the trigger.’  
  
‘Father, no! Please!’  
  
‘For Cardassia!’”  
  
Garak cocks his head to favor Julian with an expression so scandalized that Julian can’t help but laugh.  
  
“I’m speechless,” he says with a small shake of his head.   
  
“I doubt that.” Julian takes a bite of his replicated salmon. He’s sitting up in his own bed--a plate of food balanced on his knees. Despite his insistence to Keiko, Jabara, and now Garak that he _is_ capable of sitting at a table and eating, they’ve ganged up on him. One more full day of bedrest. Garak has offered to keep him company through dinner and has been reading to him from the novel for the first book club meeting.  
  
“No Cardassian speaks like this.”  
  
“Dukat does a bit, don’t you think?” Julian asks, munching on his salmon. A week of barely conscious meals--and then only soups and gelatin desserts--makes this bit of fish extra enticing for Julian.  
  
“I’ve harbored _many_ suspicions about Dukat’s true heritage.”  
  
Julian laughs. “OK, OK, it’s a pretty awful story--”  
  
“ _Dreadful_.”  
  
“It’s a _dreadful_ story.”  
  
“No father would willingly turn a phaser on his daughter.”  
  
“Even if she betrayed Cardassia?”  
  
Garak’s silence speaks louder than most men can shout and Julian grins sheepishly.  
  
“All right, it’s moot because Nalla hasn’t betrayed Cardassia.”  
  
“More to the point, it’s her _father_ \--the blithering _fool_ \--who has betrayed everyone. Oh, and what a hero he believes himself! ‘It’s all in the service of the homeland.’ Do you know that this theme, crafted by a Cardassian master is one of the most beautiful literary devices? But _this?_ Such _two dimensional_ characters. There should _never_ come a time when I--the reader--find myself siding with the _Romulan._ ”  
  
“ _What_ Romulan?”  
  
“Terrak.”  
  
“Wait,” Julian says, dropping his fork. “Terrak is a Romulan? How do you possibly figure that?”  
  
“How do you _not_?”  
  
Garak and Julian look at each other for one long moment and then they burst into laughter.  
  
It’s the first time they’ve ever laughed _together_. Laughter has always been just another step in their merry dance. A response to words spoken wittily. The reward for a trick played cleverly. They’ve never shared amusement like this before. Not so fully. Not so openly.  
  
Julian is lost.  
  
Julian is in love.  
  
Julian doesn’t mind this realization--except that he still doesn’t know what of their past is true. He’s holding a dozen pieces of a puzzle he’s never seen whole.  
  
The laughter dries on his lips like morning dew in the sun. He meets Garak’s gaze. He swallows. The salmon is forgotten. The book is forgotten. He needs to see the image completed.  
  
“What happened between us last week?” he asks. “Please. I know you love to toy with the truth, Garak, but-- it’s all such a jumble, I can’t tell what happened and what didn’t… And I _need_ to know.”

  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh! I had way too much fun writing that really, really, really bad "Cardassian" novel. I wonder who on the station actually picked that book? Thoughts? ;)


	8. Interlude: Garak Must Choose

For the past week, Garak has been living with twinned memories.  
  
Neither memory dominates the other. They neither fade nor flicker nor do they reveal each other to be false.  
  
Instead they are like perfectly twisted threads of the same skein--part of a greater whole.  
  
Garak knows it’s not possible that _both_ have happened.  
  
Despite his memories.  
  
Despite his senses.  
  
And yet, that’s the lie Garak’s memories tell-- that he’s experienced the same set of circumstances but with different outcomes.  
  
In the first memory, a thoroughly inebriated Julian Bashir arrives at his door. He talks around an apology, trips over several inarticulate lies, and wanders off on a few less than entertaining tangents, including some nonsense about Ensigns Mara and T’Le. Garak, ultimately fed up and mildly jealous, returns the good doctor, along with his non-apologies and gifts, to his own quarters.   
  
The next day a heated argument between them ends in a passionate--and quite pleasant--kiss.  
  
In the second memory, which is as perfectly clear to Garak as the first, a thoroughly inebriated Julian Bashir arrives at his door. His disorientation seems to go far beyond the synthehol he’s ingested. He rants about his feelings of _déjà vu_ , insists he and Garak have shared a kiss that Garak can not recall, and clings to Garak in a way that is both infuriating and tempting.   
  
The next day there is an argument, but definitely no pleasant kiss.  
  
In both timelines, he is furious with Doctor Bashir.  
  
But in the one, somehow, miraculously, he lets down his guard enough to do what he has wanted to do from the first moment he laid eyes on Julian.  
  
And now Bashir wants to know what _really_ happened.  
  
Well, given that it seems _both_ stories are true, it’s only fair that Garak be allowed to master his own destiny.  
  
He’ll _choose_.  
  
He reaches out to take what he wants.  
  
Gripping Julian’s hand, Garak raises it to his lips, laying a light kiss on warm knuckles.  
  
“I believe you owe me a massage, my dear Doctor.”  
  
When a look of tremendous relief transforms Julian’s handsome face, Garak lets out his held breath with a small, inaudible sigh.  
  
He’s chosen well.  
  
****


	9. In Which Julian Asks Garak Out, or Maybe it’s the Other Way Around

Four days ago, Julian Bashir metaphorically left orbit and he’s been doing a happy little tap dance on a distant star ever since.  
  
_Nothing_ has brought him down!  
  
Not his monthly staff performance evaluations.  
  
Not the painfully long and accusatory subspace chat with his aunt.  
  
Not the ordeal that was wrangling Major Kira into her yearly physical.   
  
Not even now, sitting here alongside his fellow (how did this even happen?) book club members in one of Quark’s holosuites, listening to Eve Honesky hold forth loudly and loftily about how much _research_ she put into writing the “Cardassian” tale they’ve all suffered through.  
  
Incidentally, no one has owned up to selecting this horrible literature. If Garak hadn’t been so _obviously_ offended by the book, Julian might have thought he somehow inflicted it on them as a joke.  
  
Honestly, Julian doesn't care. He doesn't care that his fake book club has become real. He doesn't care that he just read the worst book in the world. He doesn't even care that the holographic version of the author is talking so animatedly that, more than once, her point (as emphasized by dramatically long fingernails) has come close to inflicting bodily harm.  
  
Julian is thinking about Garak.  
  
Actually this is all he’s thought about for days.   
  
He and Garak kissed! Or maybe they didn't, Julian still isn’t 100% certain, but it doesn’t really matter because they've agreed to believe they did.   
  
It might happen again, and there is nothing Julian wants more in the world than to kiss Garak again.   
  
Unfortunately, the opportunity has yet to present itself.   
  
Apparently, the Cardassian tailor was not lying about being busy. Julian has seen Garak one time in the past 78 hours, and that was only long enough for a brief exchange of smiles-- Julian’s beaming, Garak’s far more reserved-- as they passed on the Promenade.  
  
“Doctor, where have you gone?” The words come from Honesky who is openly offended that Julian hasn’t been listening. For a moment he blushes sheepishly, until he remembers she’s no more than photons and light programmed in a facsimile of the real author. Besides, he heard _some_ of what she said-- she’s been rambling about the countless hours of _research_ she did on Cardassia...without ever actually going to Cardassia.  
  
“Don’t mind him,” Keiko says breezily, popping a shrimp puff in her mouth. “He’s obviously lost in thought about his friend.”  
  
Julian coughs and flushes as gazes cut toward him. He’s quick to engage Eve then. “How many Cardassians did you say you’d interviewed for your novel?” Julian asks, trying to distract everyone from Keiko’s comment.  
  
“Three!” she replies proudly. “Well, _two_ really. The third was… I suppose he doesn’t really count.”  
  
“So things are better, Julian?” Jadzia asks, ignoring the author and focusing on his juicy embarrassment. She leans forward, placing her elbows on her knees. She’s hungry for gossip. “With Garak?”  
  
“No,” Julian says. “Well, yes, they’re fine, but--”  
  
“He asked about you all the time,” Kira says, only mildly annoyed by this fact. “When you were out of commission.”  
  
“ _All_ the time?” Julian can’t believe that, but he _wants_ to.  
  
“Well, in his own way. He doesn’t really _ask_ anything, he hints at his theories and then waits for you to prove him wrong. But you could tell he was concerned. The man really skulks about, doesn’t he?”  
  
A few nods of agreement.  
  
“So are the two of you official?”   
  
Miles groans loudly. “Do we really have to talk about this? You’re embarrasin’ him.”  
  
They’re embarrassing _both_ of them. Miles handles Garak pretty well, considering -- but he can only be expected to be so accepting. The fact that he doesn’t mutter, _fecking Cardie_ , under his breath is leaps and bounds better than a few years ago.   
  
And even though O’Brien is the one who out-and-out stated he knew Garak was pursuing Julian, that doesn’t mean he’s _excited_ to know Julian’s reciprocated. It’s going to take time.  
  
“It’s the perfect opportunity to discuss it, don’t you think?” This from Sisko whose glance is mildly amused, but mostly vindicated. Julian suddenly realizes the commander has been waiting for his opportunity for...for vengeance.   
  
Two weeks ago, Julian accidentally interrupted a meeting between Sisko and the ambassador from Evora. He'd only meant to assure the commander that the rash he'd come to the Infirmary with that morning was _not_ contagious and the itching would abate in a day or so if Sisko returned for treatment. The commander needn't worry, even though the area infected was rather, well, delicate.  
  
How in the world was Julian supposed to know Sisko wasn't alone? Evora were quite small, after all, and it wasn’t as if he’d blurted it all out in the middle of Ops… _this time_. It certainly wasn’t his fault that the Evora found Sisko’s unfortunate medical condition so highly amusing.  
  
“Here we have an _expert_ on Cardassian/outsider relationships.”  
  
“Commander, I hardly think she’s an _expert_.”  
  
Jadzia leaps on the opportunity.“But, Doctor, she’s interviewed _three_ \-- no, _two_ Cardassians. Eve? Care to weigh in on the Doctor’s situation?”  
  
The room-- excepting Miles who has the good sense to feel awkward about the whole thing-- finds this quite amusing. They chatter and laugh and Julian glowers at them all. Eve’s expression has morphed from annoyance to sheer, unadulterated glee. “Are you in a relationship with a Cardassian?”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a _relationship_. I mean, we’re friends.” Julian looks around the room uncertainly, not quite comfortable making eye contact with anyone. “I-I certainly _like_ him. Of course I like him. Friends, remember? But I suppose I… Well, I shouldn’t be talking about him when he isn’t here.”  
  
Eve nods sympathetically, but her smile is cat-like. “Cardassian partners can be _quite_ dominating. It's understandable that you'd need your lover's permission to discuss the relationship.”  
  
“Lover? No! He’s not--I mean, we haven’t-- I mean, aren’t we getting a little far off topic? I don’t need his permission for anything! Also we’re not dating! I mean...I haven’t asked him out yet.”  
  
“Yet? But you intend to? Highly unusual. You’re the human, the obviously weaker race. Don’t you think you’re setting your relationship up for failure by not letting _him_ pursue _you_?”  
  
“Oh, this is better than I could have ever imagined,” Kira scoffs.  
  
Julian has _so much_ to say about this, about relationships and pursuit and the roles of pursuer and pursued. About weakness and strength, and alien races, and how this is all utter tripe. Instead, he practically shouts, “ _Why_ are we talking about this?”  
  
“Well, it is pertinent to my book, don’t you think? In a way, your relationship with this Garak mirrors that of Terrak and Nalla.”  
  
“In exactly zero ways,” Julian says.  
  
“Well, at the most basic level, he’s Cardassian and you’re--”  
  
“Not Romulan.”  
  
Eve blinks at him and then frowns. “You thought Terrak was Romulan?”  
  
****  
  
As disastrous as their first book club meeting was, it’s given Julian something important to think about. And to fret about. Mostly fret about.  
  
So, Garak admitted they kissed--and Julian was certain, at the time, that this meant something important. It wasn’t a declaration of undying love, but for the man who usually hid _every_ part of himself? It was significant.  
  
But...  
  
Julian’s been thinking about their lunches-- the very passionate, very combative conversations they’ve had over literature.  
  
Should they be fighting? Should Julian go and pick a fight with Garak?  
  
Or...goad him with a story about-- ?  
  
_No, no, no!_ That’s how the whole book club fiasco happened in the first place. It’s a miracle he made it out of that relatively unscathed-- though now he’s committed to these monthly holosuite meetings. Which, what did they say their next book was going to be? Oh, right. _I, the Jury_. Miles’ pick.

OK. No fighting. No lies. He just needs to approach Garak in his own forthright human way and ask him for a date.

Naturally.  
  
_Garak, seeing as you are no longer upset with me and seeing as we have a mutual appreciation for the kissing, we should go on a date-type date. What do you like to do? Besides...read...and...sew things? Andsupersecretspytypestuff._  
  
They could eat…  
  
But they always eat.  
  
Julian doesn’t want to eat.  
  
Rather, he does. The hors d'oeuvres at the book club were so small and inconsequential that they only whetted his appetite. Quark had overcharged and underwhelmed, as usual. But he doesn’t want to eat with Garak. Unless Garak wants to eat.  
  
Yes, Julian could eat.  
  
But _after_ that.  
  
What could they do together for his proposed date-type-date?  
  
Julian finds Garak alone in his shop-- a rather uncommon occurrence these days. He’s sitting in a dimly lit corner, a beautiful chartreuse fabric spread over his lap. He is embroidering tiny patterns into the cloth by hand-- the in-and-out sweep of the needle and thread are hypnotic.  
  
It surprises the hell out of him when Garak-- not looking up-- says, “Good evening, Doctor. Did you enjoy your book club?”  
  
“Not really, no.”  
  
Julian thinks he catches a hint of a smile there--but it’s hard to tell, the only light that is on in the shop is aimed at Garak’s work.  
  
“Garak, I… I was wondering if you’d like to--”  
  
“I do apologize, but I must finish this piece tonight. I’m on something of a deadline.”  
  
“Your opera diva?” Julian asks dejectedly.  
  
Garak sits back just enough that when he lifts his head he is illuminated by the corona of the work lamp and yes, oh _heart-meltingly yes_ , he is smiling at Julian. A real, delicious smile. It’s one Julian’s never seen before.  
  
“No, my dear, it’s for you. For tomorrow. I’ve plans for us, if you’re amenable.”  
  
_Date-type plans_?  
  
“I think, yes, that sounds fine.” _Julian! Doofus! Why are you being aloof?_ He can’t hold it back. “Actually, I was just coming to tell you I thought we should do something, too. So yes, absolutely. Us. Together. Plans! Tomorrow.”  
  
Julian is lifted back to the far reaches of space where he resumes dancing on his little proverbial star.  
  
****


	10. In Which Fine Embroidery Makes for Fine Dating

Julian is hyper-aware of Garak’s presence in his quarters.

While he is getting ready in the bathroom, there’s Garak-- just on the other side of the door, sitting on Julian’s couch.

Well, perhaps not sitting anymore. Probably, he’s snooping.

Julian imagines Garak is quite an excellent snoop-- he’s probably gone through every one of Julian’s shelves, checked Kukalaka for hidden pockets, and is hacking into his console by now, viewing his personal logs.

He hopes he’s left something interesting for Garak to find.

Julian’s stalling because he’s embarrassed.

And he’s embarrassed because…

Julian studies his reflection in the mirror and very slowly lifts his hand to trail along the embroidered neckline of the light tunic top Garak made for him. The chartreuse fabric is rich and lovely-- and complements his skin tone perfectly.

Julian’s never been particularly concerned with fashion-- _something Garak has lamented loudly and at great length._ But he can tell immediately that this was designed _for him_. It fits his gangly form perfectly-- loose and light. The brown trousers are understated-- meant to let the tunic shine as the star of the outfit.

And it does shine, but it’s the embroidery that shines brightest.

Thousands of tiny brown and green and gold stitches inch across the fabric to create an intricate pattern that swirls and blooms along the neck, drawing the eye and holding it. He can’t stop staring at the design, can’t stop running his fingers lightly across it.

Garak made this _for him_.

To wear.

On their date.

And Julian is so awkwardly overwhelmed by the gesture, he hasn’t been able to leave the bathroom.

It’s perfect. It’s _too_ perfect. It’s so perfect he actually hopes he’ll catch Garak in the act of snooping because then, at least, he’ll know how to react. He has a response to “snooping Cardassian”-- he has no response to the effort and kindness that went into this embroidery.

There’s one sharp knock on the door and Julian just about leaps right out of the tunic. Maybe the neck is cut a little too big?

“I do apologize, my dear Doctor, but if we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the shuttle.”

“The shuttle?” Julian asks, surprised. He keys the bathroom door, it slides open and he steps out. “What shuttle? We’re going on a _shuttle_?”

Where in the world could they possibly be going? Bajor? But Garak is horribly uncomfortable on Bajor-- that wouldn’t make for a very fun date.

“Garak?”

Garak is staring at him quite intently, his gaze slowly roving over Julian, lingering on the neck of the tunic.

“Garak? What, um, what shuttle?”

Garak looks up. “Shuttle? Oh, yes. I was only teasing.” He clears his throat and straightens. “I’m sorry, Julian, you are quite distracting in that.”

“You’re surprised?” Julian asks but then shakes his head. That sounded arrogant! “I mean, you’re the one who made it, I figured you could imagine what the end result would look like.”

Garak reaches out and runs his fingers along one of Julian’s shoulders, smoothing a wrinkle. “I _imagined_ , yes, but seeing it… That neckline is more scandalous that I had envisioned.” He smiles then, and the moment of open appreciation is replaced with a more controlled expression. “Thank goodness there are no other Cardassians aboard the station at the moment. Hmm?”

Julian looks down. He didn’t think it was so ‘scandalous.’ It doesn’t plunge down to his bellybutton or anything.

“So...uh...no shuttle?”

“No shuttle,” Garak agrees. “But a holosuite reservation that is fast approaching. And you know Quark would have no qualms giving someone else our slot if we’re late.”

****

Julian had expected Cardassia.

It would have been a fitting date and he thought he might be dressed for it-- it was supposed to be quite warm there.

Instead, they’d entered the bustle of a crowded commercial district on a planet he doesn’t recognize. He looks at Garak questioningly, but Garak only smiles that quizzical little smile that Julian both loves and loathes.

Garak does not let them tarry even though Julian wants to stop and look at the wares.

The details of this city are amazing-- whoever crafted the program did so with loving detail. And yet, apparently the details are beside the point.

Odd.

Details are _always_ the point with Garak.

They reach a small alley where a large alien man stands guard, looking down on them with distrust. Julian knows this is a holoprogram, but wow that guy is large.

Garak bows slightly and with an outstretched hand gestures to the embroidery on Julian’s tunic. Julian side-eyes him.

“You better not be offering my collarbones up as collateral.”

Garak grins, the guard nods, and steps aside.

They climb a very narrow staircase, emerging in a large, dimly lit room. A large table sits in the middle under washed out blue light. A feast is spread on the table.

“Invitation-only dinner?” Julian asks, taking his seat at the end of the obscene spread of food.

He doesn’t even know where to start. The smells mingling and assaulting his senses are heady-- delicious-- but none of the food is familiar even though he’s tried many non-Terran dishes in his life.

Garak doesn’t sit, merely stands with his hand on a chair, admiring him. At least Julian _thinks_ that’s what Garak’s expression means. _Admiration._

He smiles up at Garak. “Aren’t you going to join me?”

“You’re the guest of honor. You eat. I’ve a small matter to attend to.”

Julian frowns. Well, this is surely a strange date.

He picks up a brown square of fried _something_ and takes a tentative bite. The flavor is savory-- _delicious_ , actually-- and he quickly eats the entire thing. Should he try that possibly-meat dish? Or...more brown squares?

“Garak, are you sure…?” When he looks up, Garak is gone from the room.

Brown square it is.

Delicious.

Amazing.

Another brown square and another.

They are crisp on the outside; the insides are juicy.

Julian finishes the entire plate and is just lamenting having taken the last piece, leaving none for Garak, when someone appears at his side, and lays a fresh plate before him.

“Thank you,” he smiles. The server looks awkwardly away and vanishes into the shadows.

****

Julian is full from brown squares, little cakes, some delicious meat stew, more brown squares, and more than a little synthehol. But still, no Garak.

Some date.

This is insane!

What business could he possibly have in the holosuite that would have taken him away from conversation and this delicious spread?

Away from Julian?

Julian stands, finds he still has his footing, and walks in the direction Garak went.

The dining room gives way to a large kitchen bustling with people, appearing to be of the same race as the guard outside. They all turn and stare at Julian as he passes.

“Garak?” he calls hesitantly. “I have to admit, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when you said we would do something together this evening.”

A man blocks the far door. Julian stops and studies him and then, inspired, he points to his embroidered collar. The guard nods and steps aside.

Very nice!

Or… maybe not.

As soon as he enters the room, he sees Garak has been quite literally taken...what? Hostage? Into custody?... by more of the aliens. They have his hands bound behind his back and they loom over him. There’s a body on the ground and a phaser next to it.

“Good of you to join us, my dear,” Garak smiles coyly.

“What the hell, Garak!” Julian cries, dropping to the ground and searching the alien physiology for an artery large enough to register a pulse.

“Oh, I assure you, he’s quite dead. How was your meal?”

“How- how was my meal?” Julian cries, looking up. “ _How was my meal?_ ”

“Quark charged quite a bit extra for the cuisine, so I hope you ate your fill.”

Julian rocks back on his heels, shaking his head. “What the devil is going on here?”

“Something of a mystery, I’m afraid,” Garak replies blithely. “These gentlemen seem to think I killed _that_ man there on the floor. While I admit, he’s no longer amongst the living, I’m insulted they think I would commit such a sloppy murder. I’d be pleased if you’d help me out.”

Slowly, realization dawns on Julian and his panic melts into humor. “It’s a murder mystery, isn’t it? A game!”

“I don’t recommend telling _them_ that, my dear Investigator, they seem quite serious about this matter.”

“Or is it one of your enigma tales, Garak?” he asks, his grin melting into a frown. “If so, then you’re guilty, obviously.”

“Indeed,” Garak responds, pursing his lips, “I suppose that would complicate matters.”

“I fear I’ve left my magnifying glass back in my quarters,” he says sarcastically.

“Do hurry, Constable Bashir. I fear these gentlemen mean to do me harm.”

****

They stumble together back to Julian’s quarters, laughing too loudly, holding on to one another and breaking apart only when they spot others coming down the corridor. When they’re alone, they fall back into one another. They’ve never been this comfortable, they’ve never been this familiar. All it took was a bit of brown-square deliciousness, holosuite murder, and a whole lot of sythehol.

“Here, let me give you the code--” Julian starts to say, and then remembers Garak already knows. Garak knows everything. Garak can get in anywhere. “You’re such a spy, Mr. Garak,” Julian says admiringly.

They stumble through the doorway together and collapse on the couch, still shaking with mirth.

Who moves in first for the kiss?

In truth, these things no longer matter.

The point is they are kissing.

It’s both sobering and intoxicating.

Garak’s arm tightens around Julian’s waist, Julian presses up against him.

“What the devil was the point of the embroidery?” he murmurs. “Why did they all respond to it?”

“Perhaps,” Garak says between long, slow, deep kisses. “If you return to the holosuite with me sometime, you might find out. I do know you enjoy to play games.”

“Stay here tonight, Garak.”

“For another game?”

Julian shakes his head. “Not even a little bit.”

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is so inclined to draw Julian in his tunic, I would love to see what you come up with! :3


	11. In Which...Finally.

Julian is nervous.  
  
He _shouldn't_ be. He's had intimate relationships before.  
  
Just never quite like this.  
  
With a male partner.  
  
With someone so much older.  
  
With a Cardassian.  
  
These aren’t things that _bother_ Julian. It’s just that this particular dance is entirely unknown to him.  
  
His heart is fully invested in this moment, invested in Garak.  
  
He likes Garak.  
  
Very much.  
  
_Achingly_ much.  
  
He loves Garak, too.  
  
Those are disparate but wholly necessary pieces that make this moment work.  
  
Julian is also nervous because he doesn't want to disappoint Garak.  
  
He is once more an eager student, ready to be taught.  
  
Garak quietly drops his admission on the press of lips. “I fear it's been a very long time, my dear.”  
  
It seems the teacher might be a bit out of practice, as well.  
  
“What constitutes ‘very’?” Julian asks breathlessly.  
  
“Oh, Doctor, it feels like a lifetime.”  
  
“If you’re not ready--”  
  
Those words make Garak laugh and he pulls Julian closer.  
  
“I am most definitely _ready._ I fear if I don't evert voluntarily, then I may--”  
  
“Evert?”  
  
Julian knows next to nothing about Cardassian physiology, despite his very best efforts to learn. _It’ll make me a better doctor_ , he’d told himself while scouring the medical databases for details about the Cardassian form.  
  
He’d never admitted to himself that really he was doing research to be prepared for _this_ moment.  
  
Garak strokes his cheek so lovingly Julian almost purrs then leans over and kisses his exposed collarbone.  
  
“This is odd, isn’t it?” Julian laments because his mouth is always running, even when he wants it to stop. Jittery nerves activate his speech center, they always have. “I mean to say, how did lunch at the replimat-- how did discussion of literature-- and the lies...evolve into...into this…?”  
  
Garak raises his eyes and studies Julian with that chiding look he gets when he thinks Julian is being naive. “Ah, let’s see-- Familiarity begat friendship which begat feelings which apparently begat an atrociously obvious lie about _book clubs--_ ”  
  
“I knew you saw through that!” Julian whispers, feeling vindicated.  
  
“--Which begat a kiss and a date--”  
  
“Which begat _murder_. I’m with a murderer.”  
  
“Ah, but you proved my innocence, didn’t you?”  
  
Julian grins, “Garak, I have never made the mistake of thinking you an innocent.  You took me on a merry chase.”  
  
“Well, that merry chase begat _more_ feelings, I think we can both agree. And now we’re here. If you’d rather not be, I should definitely leave. _Now_. I fear my patience with you, _clothed_ , is wearing rather thin.”  
  
Julian likes the sound of that declaration, and so he sets his nerves aside and climbs up in Garak’s lap-- straddling him, revelling in the strong arms being wrapped around his waist.  
  
_This_ is nice.  
  
_This_ is just what he wants.  
  
He doesn’t tell Garak he loves him-- no need to complicate this moment-- but he gives his whole heart to the act, unabashedly.  
  
It’s perfect.  
  
****


	12. Interlude: Garak

The ambient noises that usually keep Garak awake, do the opposite this evening. They lull him.

Despite being in quarters that are not his own, _and_ being unaccustomed to sleeping with a bed partner-- even one as lovely and warm as Julian-- Garak feels like he could truly drift off if he allowed himself.

He hasn’t _slept_ in years.

Oh, he’s dozed, certainly. The imitation of sleep. And he’s been _unconscious_ through injury and trauma.

But _sleep_? That peaceful place of slumber is unknown to him.

Garak is forever tensed, ready, coiled tight and prepared to parry any attack.

The shadows hide his enemies.

Cardassian.

Bajoran.

The unknown, which presses closer during the night, suffocating him.

Somehow the delicious warmth of this willing, wonderful human molded into Garak’s side, seduces him toward slumber.

Julian is even more beautiful when he's asleep.

This, Garak has known for a while. It’s not the first time he’s visited the doctor’s quarters late at night. It is, however, the first time he’s been _invited_.

The doctor seems to melt into his pillow when he sleeps, as if sinking into another world. His expression is untroubled. Innocent. He does not fear the shadows. He has no enemies.

There are more _secrets_ , though-- Garak is sure of this. But in sleep, Julian casts them off.

It almost makes Garak think he can do the same.

He closes his eyes, drawing Julian microns closer.

Tonight he will try.

Elim Garak will try to _sleep_.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Whispers* Shh... Garak is sleeping. Incidentally, sleeping Garak makes me quite happy. :3


	13. In Which the Chroniton Boy Returns… With a Vengeance!

“Julian Bashir,” Jadzia says, slapping him hard on the shoulder as she rounds the table. She pulls up a chair and he grins at her. He can’t hold it back. Today he is a smiling, sappy, ridiculous _fool_ and he doesn’t care _who the hell_ sees it.

“Jadzia Dax!” He beams. “I ordered you a raktajino.”

“And you’ve had--?”

“None yet, but it feels like _ten_.”

“You seem--”

“I _am_!”

“Then you and Garak--?”

“I’m not the sort to kiss and tell.”

“But you are the sort to whistle and grin?”

“ _Am I_ whistling and grinning?” he asks, letting out a cheery whistle and realizing, oh yes, he definitely was doing that before she sat down.

“You don’t get to be as old as I am without recognizing that particular whistle.”

“Yes, well.”

“You’re happy?”

“Quite.” There goes the grin again. “What about you? Jadzia, are _you_ happy?”

“Oh no.”

“No?”

“Don’t start that, ‘everyone needs a partner because I found bliss in the arms of my Cardassian!’ business.”

Julian should be embarrassed by how loudly she says this, but he’d have to stop grinning long enough to flush. He smiles at the server who brings their raktajinos.

“You, too, could be as happy as I am.”

“Don’t worry about me, Julian. I’m plenty happy.”

“‘Plenty happy,’ isn’t…”

He didn’t think there was anything on the station that could stop the bubble and flow of his words. Well, perhaps seeing Garak. But it definitely isn’t Garak that catches his attention. Whatever he’d been about to say dies away, as does his smile.

There’s a boy, across the Promenade, staring at him with incredible animosity. For a moment, Julian doesn’t recognize him--he’s simply taken aback by the intensity of that glower.

And then it all comes back to him.

“Vrier!” He practically shouts the word at the boy who is now moving toward them. He isn’t _running_ , but instead gliding in that incorporeal way that all the Vrier move. It’s ghost-like, and this ‘spectre’ is angry.

“What--?” Jadzia looks up just as Julian leaps from his chair. It topples backwards, clattering loudly and causing others near them to look up. The boy navigates his way through the maze of tables.

“It’s _him_ , it’s the chroniton boy.”

“Julian?” Jadzia is on her feet, too. From her expression, it’s certain she thinks he’s gone mad. Maybe he has.

He knows it happened. He knows he went back in time. At least, he _thinks_ he knows. The nagging doubts make Julian feel like a crazy person. But it would be better-- _for everyone--_ if any maybe-possibly time travel didn’t happen again.

“Stay back,” he warns as the boy approaches. Suddenly he realizes the young Vrier and all his chroniton particles are standing dangerously close to Dax. “Jadzia, don’t let him touch you!”

She looks at the child, sighs as if she can not believe Julian would be so rude, and pats his shoulder.

Julian waits, horrified, expecting any second that she will pop out of existence, or, at the very least, her eyes will roll back in her head and she’ll collapse.

A second goes by.

Then another.

She drops her hand and shakes her head. “I apologize for Dr. Bashir,” Jadzia says to the boy. “He apparently left his manners _in bed_ this morning.”

Julian has moved a chair in between him and the Vrieran child. _Child, child_ , _yes, right. He’s just a_ child _, Bashir._

There’s logic and then there’s the memories of an involuntary jaunt through time. One has more weight than the other.

“I’m sure you didn’t _mean_ to do what you did,” Julian says quickly, not taking his eyes off the boy. “All is forgiven. And-and you know, lesson learned on my part, too. Sometimes chroniton radiation is best left uninvestigated.”

“You must go back.”

The words are as simple and flat as all the Vrieran language Julian has encountered so far. He wonders if the homeworld they left behind is as plain as their language.

Julian shakes his head. “See, I already _went back_ and then I came _back_ -back...forward. That little trip put me out of commission for an entire week.” And it nearly ruined his blossoming relationship with Garak, too. “I _don’t_ need another tour.”

The boy moves and Julian scooches away, using the chair to shield himself.

“ _Doctor Bashir_ ,” Jadzia says sharply, reminding him of his position. She grabs the chair and yanks it away from him. “What in the world is wrong with you?”

The boy reaches out for him. Julian knows exactly what will happen if he’s touched.

In that moment, Julian Bashir is not a logical, well-trained doctor. He’s a prey animal in fight or flight mode.

But there’s no fighting the chroniton particles and he does _not_ want to deal with the book club lie all over again.

Flight mode is selected. Julian runs away. Literally.  
  
****


	14. In Which Julian Hides In Garak's Clothiers

“You _can’t_ work today?” Commander Sisko asks slowly, raising an eyebrow. He’s sitting behind his desk, leveling Julian with that slightly annoyed and very put-upon look he's famous for.

“Well, I _can_ work,” Julian says, shifting uncomfortably under his commanding officer’s knowing gaze. It’s evident Sisko sees right through his request. “There are-are reports I can do from the confines of my quarters if I must.”

“Because you’re--?”

_Being stalked by a Vrieran boy who wants to send me back in time._

“Quite ill.”

There’s no official Starfleet report about what happened to him. Only a medical report that says he was in and out of consciousness for about a week, cause unknown, and a follow-up report clearing him to return to duty. If it had happened to one of Julian’s patients, he wouldn’t have been able to rest until he solved the mystery. But Dr. Neeran, a specialist Starfleet had detailed to DS9 to check him over, only cared about the ‘mystery’ far enough to sign off on Julian and then he was done.

No one has asked Julian about it since.

He and Garak haven’t discussed it further.

“Is it contagious?” Sisko asks, obviously not believing Julian is sick.

“No, no, you’ll be fine. And-and _I’ll_ be fine. Eventually! But today, I’m quite, quite ill.”

Sisko steeples his fingers and leans forward. “Dr. Bashir. If this is about our Cardassian friend, and say, a new relationship you’ve embarked on, why not just ask to use your leave?”

“Because...I…” Julian shrugs helplessly. Because it’s not about Garak and… Wait, he can request leave? Major Kira had--just last month--enacted her _two weeks notice_ policy for any leave requests. For _reasons._ Julian straightens and clears his throat. “May I take a leave of absence?”

“If you will stop this pretense and tell me what’s really going on, then, yes.”

Julian considers this for a moment.

“May I sit?”

“By all means, Doctor.”

****

“As much as I adore your company, my dear,” Garak says as he straightens a very elaborate garment on the dress form, “I think it's possible you’re driving off business.”

Julian snorts. “ _Me_ ? _How_? I'm only sitting here.”

He watches Garak circle the dress form, his hands running along the fall of the fabric. It’s almost voyeuristic, watching such an intimate encounter--like observing newlyweds on a dinner date in the darkened corner of an exclusive restaurant. Garak and the clothing are immersed in a whispered conversation.

Julian has _tried_ all afternoon to lose himself in the medical texts on his PADD, but no. It’s impossible. He _thinks_ Commander Sisko believes him about his experiences with the Vrieran. And Odo is on the lookout for the boy. But it troubles Julian that even with all the security on the station, they can’t locate him.

The Vrieran ship is no longer in the docking ring--according to the departure records, it has been gone for days.

So why is the boy still here?

Julian might think he’s going crazy except Jadzia saw him, too.

The only thing that takes his mind off the situation--even for a second--is Garak. When he isn’t fretting, he’s staring at Garak, watching him work.

Each garment seems to tell the tailor a different story, and Julian has known for a while now that Garak is a very good listener.

In the end, though, whatever the desires of the fabric, they all agree to Garak’s plans. He can be terribly persuasive.

The thought makes Julian shiver and smile. He thinks about the tunic now hanging in his closet.

Watching him work, it’s hard to imagine Garak’s hands having ever _destroyed anything_. They are made for creation. Julian starts to tell him so, but is interrupted.

“This may come as a shock, Doctor, but there are few customers I've encountered who like to be watched while they go about their shopping.”

 _It’s not_ them _I’m watching._

“Well, I can look somewhere else then.” Despite the empty shop, Julian immediately lowers his gaze to prove how biddable he can be. “See?” he asks his navel, trying to seem serious, but he can’t hide his grin.

“Also, your unasked for--but nonetheless readily offered--opinion might be having an adverse effect upon my sales as well.”

Julian raises his eyes then. He knows the exact incident Garak's referring to and he doesn’t think it’s a fair example at all. The Bajoran woman _completely_ overreacted. “I only said I thought green was her color! It’s a compliment, really. She had lovely red hair.”

“The dress she held was purple.”

“Exactly. And it didn’t suit her at all.”

Garak’s lips quirk. He doesn’t even have to say it-- amusement comes off him in waves. _You? Giving fashion advice, Julian Bashir?_

He knows he’s been something of a...nuisance. He knows he wore out his welcome an hour ago. But he’s already been run off from three other shops on the Promenade. _Loitering_. Psh. He can’t go back to his quarters and he can’t go to the Infirmary. He’s thought about using his leave to take a trip to Bajor-- but…

He also knows he can’t hide in Garak’s Clothiers forever. Except… Julian really, _really_ wants to hide in Garak’s Clothiers forever.

“Why don’t you close up early?” Julian asks, an enticing smile parting his lips. He has _much_ he can offer Garak if he’ll flip the proverbial open sign to _closed_ . “You might as well, since I’ve already run off all your customers. We could go back to your quarters.” _Specifically your quarters_ , he thinks. _Not mine_. “I’ll replicate us something delicious for dinner. We can relax. Talk. Read, perhaps? And...then we could make a long weekend of it!”

“A long weekend? Spent exclusively in my quarters?”

“No need to ever leave the room.”

“Why, whatever would we get up to in there? I fear you’d get very bored very quickly.”

Garak plucks a pin from the cushion at his wrist and secures the hem of the garment.

“You know I won’t,” Julian argues. He could spend the rest of his life glued to Garak’s side and never get _bored_. Annoyed, perhaps, confused and frustrated and passionate and everything in between, but never bored.

“And there’s another flaw in your plan, my dear.”

“What?”

“You want a ‘weekend,’ but it’s the middle of the week.”

Garak hasn’t asked Julian why he’s so obviously hiding. He hasn’t asked why Julian made arrangements for others to take over his shift in the Infirmary. He doesn’t ask why Julian is so keen to hide in Garak’s quarters. Garak rarely asks Julian anything in a straightforward manner. But Julian knows he’s curious. Knows he’s sussing out the little details in his own, surreptitious way.

“Commander Sisko has approved my leave request. The weekend starts _now_.”

“And you’d like to spend your hard-won vacation time it in my quarters? Not on, say, Risa?”

“You...you want to go to Risa?” Julian asks, surprised. He can’t even imagine Garak on the pleasure planet. What would that entail? Somehow, a giant floppy hat comes to mind. Julian smiles. It could certainly be nice. And warm! Garak would enjoy that. He's always so cold. “I mean...we...could?”

Garak cuts his eyes over to Julian without turning his head. “Oh, I assumed you’d go by yourself?”

Julian frowns and leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. “You’re teasing, surely.”

“Would I tease you?”

“You’d let me go to Risa...by myself?”

“‘Let you?’” Garak repeats mildly. “I wasn’t aware that I controlled anything you do, Doctor.”

Julian rolls his eyes. “Well, of course you don’t. But… aren’t we ‘together?’ I wouldn’t want _you_ going to Risa alone.”

Garak smiles and Julian can only see a hint of it from the angle he’s at, but it looks genuine.

“Jealousy? An interesting shade on you, Julian.”

Hearing his name on Garak’s lips pleases Julian down to his toes.

“Oh yes, _very_ jealous. You can be jealous, too, if you want.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Garak says. “Should you give me anything to be jealous about, you’ll see how quickly I turn ‘green.’”

“Then why suggest I go to Risa alone?”

“Merely if you were interested in taking your vacation there-- and you did not wish to be accompanied by an old tailor-- then there would be nothing I could do about it. Except follow you. I never said I wouldn’t _follow_ you.”

Julian raises an eyebrow. “Then wouldn’t we actually be going _together_?”

“Not if you don’t see me.”

“OK, so it’s a date? I’ll board a shuttle for Risa and you’ll stalk me from the shadows?”

For a long moment, Garak is silent, steadily working, the smile lingering on his lips. Then he pulls the pin cushion off his wrist, sets it aside, and turns to Julian. “Oh, very well, Doctor. My quarters? Now?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

For a moment, he almost forgets that he’s hiding. Their playful banter about Risa has eased his tension. Maybe that was always Garak’s plan. But now Julian remembers the angry young Vrieran who wants him to ‘go back.’

If they go to Garak’s quarters then Julian will be safe. He imagines there’s all sorts of security and defense systems in Garak’s room. Even a Chroniton Boy cannot penetrate the safety measures put in place by a paranoid Cardassian.

“If we leave now, I promise I’ll make it quite worth your while!”

Garak raises an eye ridge, his smile melting into a contented cat grin. “I’m certain you will.”

“You’ve no interest in taking it slow, my dear?”

“ _None_ ,” Julian says. This isn’t true. Julian has a tendency to throw his whole self into love. And he’s never quite loved anyone the way he loves Garak.

But this isn’t about the clawing need to be closer, closer, closer still.

This is about _not_ being shot back through time.

He just wants their relationship to keep moving _forward_.

Garak walks over to Julian and places his hands on Julian’s shoulders. The pressure of his thumbs in Julian’s knotted shoulders is heavenly. He groans and leans back into the massage. Garak leans over, places a feather-light kiss against the back of Julian’s neck and whispers, “Shall we go... _Julian_?”

****


	15. In Which They Read Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Book Club returns :) Frustration and sweetness ensue!

“So, what is your club reading next?”   
  
“Uh, _I, the Jury,_ I think. They keep changing on me. These people wouldn't know how to be part of a book club if--”   
  
“Here,” Garak hands him a PADD and smiles coyly. “ _Seasons and Duty,_ in the original Kardasi.”   
  
“Oh, I don’t--”   
  
“Aren’t you studying it?” Garak asks, walking over to the replicator. “Tarkalean Tea, extra sweet.” He brings the drink over to Julian and sits down next to him. “I could have sworn I saw the Kardasi language program on your PADD.”   
  
Julian raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of the delicious tea. “What were you doing looking at my PADD?”   
  
“Oh, I assure you, I only caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye.” He taps a finger right near that bright blue eyeball. “Am I to assume you’re learning for diplomatic reasons?”   
  
“Oh yes,” Julian agrees. “Very diplomatic reasons. You could say it’s the most important diplomatic reason of all.” _Understanding you_.   
  
He curls into Garak’s arms and feels his lover shift, inviting him closer. For a while they are quiet, and Julian enjoys his tea and the moment of peace.   
  
Then, “Read to me?” Garak suggests and Julian flushes.   
  
“My Kardasi will make you cry.”   
  
“Hmm,” Garak says. “I’m certain it can’t be that bad.”   
  
Oh, but it is that bad. And then some.   
  
Nevertheless, they turn off their Universal Translators. For a moment Julian listens to the hissed tones of Garak, speaking to him in Kardasi. The sound is alien and beautiful, but still strangely familiar.    
  
Despite the vastly different grammatical structures of the languages, Garak’s cadence and inflection are somehow unchanged. He makes what sounds like a rather snide comment, probably a remark on his poor fashion sense.   
  
“You’ve made me one tunic, it’s not as if I can wear it every day.” His voice, speaking Standard, provokes a wry grin from Garak. All Julian needs to do is raise his head and he can see it. It’s a wonderful experience.   
  
But it only lasts until Garak taps the PADD and Julian is forced to read.   
  
He stumbles, falters, mispronounces, and hesitates, all over the manuscript. He isn’t even interpreting what he’s reading-- not really. He’s too focused on just saying the words aloud. With each butchered word, Julian pulls himself away from Garak a little more until he is on one end of the couch, hunched over the PADD. A quick glance shows that Garak’s grin has faded.   
  
Julian stops reading.   
  
They are both silent.   
  
Schooling his features, Garak retrieves the PADD, and with a few button presses, he hands it back.   
  
It now displays a Cardassian picture book meant for a child.   
  
It’s Julian’s turn to scowl. Then he flushes again, dammit. And wishes he could go back to his own quarters, but of course, that would mean chancing _time travel_! He’s never liked reading in front of the class. And this makes him feel… small.   
  
He tosses the PADD aside.   
  
Patiently, Garak picks it back up and hands it to him.   
  
He taps the screen and with patient arms draws Julian back to him.   
  
Julian glances down. He knows these words-- most of them anyway. They’re very simple, obviously. After a moment, he reads them aloud-- slowly at first and then with more confidence, warmed and validated when Garak drops a kiss on the top of his head.   
  
He encourages Julian with nods and gentle hugs.   
  
And as Julian warms to the act, he decides it’s the best method of learning he’s ever experienced. He lets his head fall back and gazes up at Garak. Julian is an unabashed puppy dog, so stupidly in love.   
  
“Where were you during all those Academy exams?” Julian drawls with a lazy smile. Garak grins at him.   
  
They kiss.   
  
The PADD is set aside.   
  
Julian pulls Garak down on the couch. Such an awkward space for lovemaking. He doesn’t care! He wants this so much and from the feel of Garak, so does the Cardassian.   
  
He’s _just_ maneuvered himself out of his trousers when his comm badge trills and an alien voice greets him. _Shit_. Oh, why? Why now? Why _right this second?_ He’s off duty and he’s got his hands all over Garak and the damn Universal Translator--   
  
Garak, ever the cool one, untangles himself from Julian who misses him _instantly_ , and reactivates the translator on Julian’s combadge.    
  
_“Kira to Bashir,”_ Major Kira repeats impatiently.   
  
“Yes?” Julian grits through clenched teeth.   
  
_“Where the hell are you, Doctor? We’re all waiting for you_.”   
  
Julian and Garak exchange a look.   
  
“I’m…” Should he say he’s with Garak? Well, why not! Jadzia practically announced it to the entire replimat this morning anyway. “Well, I’m with--”   
  
_“You’re fifteen minutes late. You know Quark is charging the club for every second of holosuite time we use. We have a book to discuss and a holographic author to chat with.”_   
  
What?   
  
Julian knuckles the tension between his eyebrows. “You must be mistaken, Major. It hasn’t even been a month since we last met. I haven’t finished _I, the Jury_ , yet. I couldn’t possibly--”   
  
Her annoyance practically radiates over the comm.   
  
_“Listen. This club was your idea. This holosuite was your idea. I’m pretty sure this ridiculous book was your idea. Haul tail or I’m coming to get you._ Eve Honesky, _”_ Kira’s drips sarcasm, “ _is a very busy hologram, you understand_.”   
  
A numbness sets in and Bashir is left blinking up at Garak’s ceiling in confused horror.   
  
How? How has this happened?   
  
If this is a practical joke--   
  
“Oh, God.” His voice quavers as he sits up, struggling to pull on his pants. The Chroniton Boy didn’t get close enough to touch him this morning. No chronitons. No slingshotting through time. And yet, it’s suddenly book club day. A book club day they’ve already had with a book that he can’t even remember anyone suggesting in the first place. With...with that _holographic demon woman_!   
  
Telling himself to breathe doesn’t work.   
  
Everything is…   
  
But he hid. Julian _hid_.   
  
He feels sick.   
  
He’s dizzy.   
  
He doesn’t want to do this all over again. He doesn’t want to lose Garak. Garak! He looks up suddenly, expecting to see anger in Garak’s eyes. But Garak is kneeling beside him. And his expression is anything but angry.   
  
“I remember it too,” Garak says mildly. “That dreadful book. You aren’t the only one.”   
  
He isn’t alone in his memories. Relief floods Julian.   
  
“What’s happening? What do I do?”   
  
“We find the boy. We end this.”   
  
Julian squeezes his eyes shut. Find the Vrieran boy? Just… find him? And give in to whatever time traveling shenanigans he has in store? No sir! No thank you!   
  
Julian swallows hard. “What if we do and…” The words stick in his throat. He forces himself to swallow. He _will_ say this. “What if we go back to a time before _this_? Before _us_?”   
  
Garak takes Julian’s hand and slowly laces their fingers.   
  
The act is so intimate, so comforting, that for a fraction of  a moment, the trembling in him stops.   
  
Garak leans forward and whispers in Julian’s ear.   
  
“It isn’t possible,” he says. “We always were _us_. You just didn’t know it.”   
  
“I love you,” Julian says and doesn’t care that he’s spilled the second largest secret he has ever kept. He’ll say it again. A million times. To anyone who will listen. Garak needs to know. “I love you, Elim. I love you so much.”   
  
****


	16. In Which It All Comes to a Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have forgotten to breathe while I was writing this!

His world is fundamentally different than it was a month ago.

Was it a month ago?

Julian can’t keep dates straight in his head.

He can’t keep _anything_ straight in his head anymore.

Except Garak.

Garak is his anchor in time. Garak remembers that dreadful book by Eve Honesky.

And what had Major Kira said? Yes, they all think Julian started the book club. He gets that. But it definitely was _not_ his idea to book the holosuite. And on no conceivable plane of existence would he _ever_ have suggested they read that dreadful facsimile of Cardassian literature... The thought of spending another minute with the arrogant holographic author makes Julian’s skin crawl.

Garak squeezes his hand and Julian looks down.

They’re walking together down the corridor, searching for the Vrieran boy. They must look silly like this. Julian doesn’t care. Garak’s hand holding his own is a more profound declaration of love than if Garak spoke the words aloud.

It gives Julian the strength he needs to continue the search.

He thinks it will take them ages to find the Vrieran boy. Or, perhaps, he will suddenly appear before them as they round a corner-- no time at all.

Julian is surprised when they stop on the Promenade after fifteen minutes of searching and find the boy just casually sitting at a table. He’s looking right at them.

He probably was expecting them.

It takes everything inside Julian not to run, though the reassuring hand Garak lays on his shoulder helps. Facing the possibility of time travel is the doctor’s way of proving his faith in Garak’s words.

Whatever happens today, or tomorrow, Garak and Julian will share something special, something _more_.

Nothing says, _it’s cool, I’m breezy_ , like standing stock-still as an alien child glides hauntingly through a sea of people with eyes ablaze.

Graduating Academy? Becoming CMO? His greatest accomplishments cannot compare to this moment. With strength born of his new understanding of his and Garak’s relationship, Julian stands firm in the face of terror in the form of a small time-manipulating child.

“You. Must. Go. Back,” the boy says when he reaches them.

“O-okay.” Julian hates that his voice quavers. He is feeling less accomplished with each passing moment..

The boy stiffly sticks out his hand, pale palm turned upward. After another long, reassuring squeeze from Garak-- is it a _goodbye?_ \-- Julian reaches out and accepts the boy’s hand.

His skin is cold to the touch and the pressure he exerts is almost non-existent.

Julian takes in a sharp breath, expecting to feel himself being slingshotted through time.

Instead, the boy sticks out his other hand, forcing it at Garak, who cocks an eyeridge in confusion. “ _You_. Must. Go. Back.”

Wordlessly, Garak complies.

They form a small triangle, the three of them. Hands clasped. If Julian thought they looked silly before!

And--

Nothing happens.

Not even a bit of shimmery air movement.

The boy’s brow furrows in frustration.

His nostrils flare.

“ _We._ _Must._ _Go._ _Back._ ”

They don’t move, waiting for something to happen. And then, suddenly, the boy’s eyes seem to hollow. There’s nothing in them. No light. He is as still as death. All of Julian’s medical training and everything in him says he should check the boy for signs of life.

But the pressure on his hands-- from both sides-- stills him.

That’s when he sees it.

Another _him_ . Walking down the hall. No, _two_ hims walking down the hall. One is trailing Garak in the shadows. He looks ridiculous! Is this how Julian looks when he tries to be stealthy? As the other Garak passes their group, Julian realizes that he’s grinning.

Other-Garak _knows_ other-Julian is there. Good heavens. _Everyone_ knows other-Julian is there.

Then there’s the second other-Julian, with his head buried in a PADD, one hand in his pocket, a scowl on his face. He looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes. He’s obviously been up all night. What is he reading?

Julian cranes his neck, trying to see what’s on the PADD as the second other-Julian passes. He only gets a glimpse but he recognizes the text. He’s studying Kardasi.

This experience is transcendent.

It’s everything that being slingshot through time _wasn’t_ . Every timeline feels like the prime timeline. Julian can see physical paths-- other _hims_ \-- everywhere. They all feel _right_ and he doesn’t know which one to take, or how.

Should he break contact with the Vrieran? Let go of Garak’s hand?

Does Garak see what he does?

Julian turns his head and it’s almost as if he’s moving through a fog. Afterimages trail. And he tries his hardest not to lose himself. That’s when he sees the third other-Bashir. Or is it the fourth? Is _he_ one of these _other_ Bashirs? He doesn’t even know anymore.

The man walking toward him is clearer than the other two. Looking down, he sees his own hand in the Vrieran’s is vaguely translucent. Unreal. He feels unreal.

The boy’s eyes are still hollow, but his mouth moves. “You. Must. Go. Back.”

The timeline is…

How he recognizes it, he doesn’t know. But _that Julian approaching_ is _him_ . That is _him_ a month ago. That is him walking toward the Replimat. That is him--! That little _smirk_ on his face. He knows that smirk. He’s about to tell his lie for the first time.

He’ll go to his lunch with Garak and lie about the book club.

It’s now or never. Literally.

Julian must let go of Garak’s hand.

He doesn’t know if he’ll be thrust into a timeline that’s already happened and he’ll say the same words over again. If he’ll ruin everything. If he’ll lose Garak.

He loves this man so much.

He loves him with everything in his heart. More than he ever thought he could love anyone.

Julian remembers Garak’s words. _We always were us. We always were us. We always were us._

_You just didn’t know it._

Bashir is striding toward him.

 _You must go back._ He can see the boy’s mouth moving. No words come out.

He lets go at that exact moment as the other-Julian passes through him.

And everything simply _is_.

  
****


	17. The Truth Will Out

Garak is suddenly surrounded by a group of Vrier and his heart rate lurches upward as they close in, becoming a tight-knit, blank-eyed, circle.   
  
The alien boy is a crumpled mess at his feet.   
  
He squares his shoulders and inclines his head, ever-so-slightly.   
  
If somehow he must be sacrificed for the sake of his dear Doctor, it’s a sacrifice he’ll gladly make.   
  
And a nobler end than he ever imagined for himself.   
  
He waits for the unknown, prepared.   
  
A female breaks from the group and the space created by her absence is absorbed as the circle of people closes tighter. She glides forward, her approach steady and silent. She stops in front of him and crouches, laying her hands tenderly on the boy’s shoulders. Life seems to flow suddenly back into him. He gasps, resuscitated, and looks up at her with eyes filled with apprehension.   
  
“I did well?”   
  
She nods gently and draws him to his feet.   
  
“You have passed your test.”   
  
“This was all a test?” An involuntary chuckle bubbles past Garak’s lips.   
  
His question draws the woman’s attention and for a moment she seems surprised-- if one can read surprise on such an alien face-- as if she did not realize he was there.   
  
“Yes,” she agrees.   
  
“For the boy?”   
  
“Yes?”   
  
“Is it your habit to play with people’s timelines?” Garak is still willing to be a sacrifice, should the need arise, but a bit of closure first would be nice.   
  
She frowns deeply. “No.”   
  
“Well, I must say, you’ve done a number on ours.” He looked around exaggeratedly. “I hardly know what is real anymore.”   
  
“An accident,” she assures him. “Vrieran children test with Vrieran adults, only.”   
  
Garak nods, beginning to understand. “The boy couldn’t control his powers?” he guesses.   
  
She nods.   
  
“And the Doctor? He somehow stumbled into the test? Or, no, he _triggered_ it, didn’t he?” Another chuckle. “And so it was merely an accident that this young man skewed the Doctor’s-- and subsequently _my_ \-- timelines?”   
  
Again she nods.   
  
“He must send the doctor back.”   
  
Back. _Back_. Not back _in time_ , but back to the _correct_ timeline.   
  
“And he’s succeeded.” It’s a statement, not a question. Julian is where he is meant to be. That is enough for Garak-- though he can’t help wondering _where_ and _when_ that place might be.   
  
And... he finds himself jealous of the Garak that is with that Julian, assuming there exists a version of Elim Garak by his side at all.   
  
“The mistake is fixed..”   
  
Garak nods.   
  
“And what of me?” he asks, looking around exaggeratedly. Will he be forced to remain here? A man out of time? The prospect is less than appealing, even for one already exiled. The doctor--   _his Julian_ \-- is possibly the only thing that has made his exile bearable. But Julian is gone and all that remains are disjointed fragments of time.   
  
“You?” she muses. “You may choose.”   
  
“Choose?” he replies. Choose what? Choose his own adventure? Pick his own timeline? Well, this is certainly an unusual turn of events!   
  
“ _Any_ time?”   
  
She nods.   
  
“To a time that never happened even?”   
  
“No such thing. _All_ has happened.”   
  
“Oh, you will have to forgive my simplistic, linear way of thinking,” he says offhandedly. “What I mean to ask is, can you send me to a timeline _I_ have never _personally_ experienced?”   
  
She considers him and then nods.   
  
A timeline that never was. A branch off the main path. Garak could be any age, have lived any life. He could be on Cardassia again-- a simple _anything_. He could have Tain’s love or have grown tall out from under his father’s shadow. He could, if he wished it, simply never have been born.   
  
Elim Garak has longed for each of these things so many times-- ached for them-- and now? The flavor of these desires is stale.   
  
So many possibilities.   
  
So much grand potential.   
  
He would be a fool to give up this opportunity, especially to return to the life of a tailor on this cold space station.   
  
A fool.   
  
A damned fool.   
  
But at least the misery is familiar.   
  
And in the midst of that misery, there’s one place, at least, where he is warm, where he is loved.   
  
With a single, steadying breath, Garak says, “I’ve made my decision.”   
  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! One more chapter to go...!


	18. In Which the End is Just the Beginning

The first bits of the plan come to Julian sometime between opening his eyes this morning and singing in the sonic shower. He was halfway through the reprise of that Bajoran song he’s had stuck in his head for a week when it all coalesced.  
  
It’s genius.  
  
_Really_ genius, actually! Quite anery original plan and one Julian is convinced _will_ work.  
  
He’s been percolating on it all morning, humming and machinating.  
  
It will take a special sort of execution, of course-- and that’s why, when he’s alone in his office in between tending to patients, Julian practices _exactly_ what he will say. The tone and intonation have to seem natural or Mr. Garak will never buy it.  
  
And after his performance, Garak will fall directly into Julian’s well-constructed trap!  
  
Then?  
  
Then he’ll have his in-road.  
  
How long has Julian felt this cloying _need_ to know more about Garak? Certainly he’s been trying to get closer ever since they first met. But Garak is clever and he side-steps every time Julian advances. Well, this time Julian will not push forward like an eager puppy.  
  
He has a much, much more clever plan.  
  
****  
  
“How is your tiramisu, Doctor?” Garak asks, motioning generally at Julian’s replicated dessert. Of course, Julian notices, Garak hasn’t finished even half his own meal-- nevermind dessert.  
  
“Lovely,” Julian says, his eyes searching Garak’s face. He smiles, the feeling of warm anticipation and his own brilliant plans have made it _very_ difficult to keep up banter about station operations and Garak’s customers. Somehow he’s managed, but barely.  
  
Julian clears his throat grandly. “Have I told you my plans for the evening?” Garak opens his mouth to respond, but Julian is too excited. He’s barreling forwarding, tumbling over himself like a small child rolling down a hill. It takes everything in him not to laugh with glee. “After work tonight, I’m meeting Mara and T’Le, do you know them? We’re going to--”  
  
“Two females at once, Doctor? Your ambitions never cease to amaze me.” Garak’s smile is as unreadable as ever, but Julian gets a sense-- or is it a hope?-- that his eyes are sparking, just a touch. Humor? Jealousy? _Indigestion?_  
  
Julian searches Garak’s face, hope making him see things that might not be there.  
  
“No, no, you misunderstand. They’re part of my new _book club_. Much to discuss! We’ve just read a novel you’re probably familiar with. It’s by a Cardassian named--”  
  
The moment it leaves his mouth, Julian knows he’s finally-- _finally_ \-- managed to get Garak’s attention.  
  
Julian forgets to finish his sentence as Garak reaches across the table and takes his hand. Julian’s lips part.  
  
“No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
Oh nonono, Julian definitely has _not_ got the upper hand now-- but… but does that mean his plan has worked? He can’t remember his desired outcome. If it was to start speaking and then immediately turn the upper hand over to Garak? Then yes, Julian Bashir is a plan _master_.  
  
“No, my Dear Doctor,” Garak says, stroking his thumb across the back of Julian’s hand. The feel of it ties Julian’s insides into a pretty little bow. “You most certainly don’t have a book club to attend tonight.”  
  
Julian’s face bursts into hot color-- he can feel his ears burning. It’s his worst tell.  
  
He stutters and stumbles, trying to deny that he’s lied. He’s been working on this plan for hours and honestly, he’s considered some _absurd_ reactions Garak might have, all of which he’s planned for and mentally catalogued.   
  
Julian never considered Garak _wouldn’t believe him_. Who doesn’t believe as innocuous a lie as _joining a book club?_ A liar, that’s who.   
  
Garak doesn’t believe anything.  
  
Ever.  
  
Julian looks down at their joined hands. Garak’s grip has tightened on his hand and Julian squeezes back. They haven’t touched like this since… They haven’t _ever_ touched like this.  
  
Julian is left breathless.  
  
_Garak_ leaves him breathless.  
  
“And even if you did,” he muses, running his thumb across the back of Julian’s hand. It sends sparks of happy pleasure down to Julian’s toes. “I’d argue that you’re quite occupied this evening and simply can’t attend.”  
  
Julian nods dumbly.  
  
He will literally do _anything_ if it means Garak doesn’t stop touching him.  
  
“You’ll...” Julian clears his throat. “You’ll have to remind me what it is I’m _doing_ this evening. You know. Instead of attending my...my book club?”  
  
Book club? _That_ was his genius lie? _Really?_ Saying it outloud now it sounds so stupid. But Garak’s blue eyes are warm on him and Julian can’t fault his own idiocy. It’s gotten him this far, hasn’t it?  
  
“Oh, I thought perhaps we’d dine in my quarters. Drink a little kanar? I would be _delighted_ to discuss Cardassian literature with you at length.”  
  
“In your quarters?”  
  
A slow smile crosses Garak’s face and he raises Julian’s hand to his lips, kissing each of his knuckles in turn. “Our own personal book club, my dear Julian.”

  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading. The reception to this dorky, sweet lil’ story has been overwhelmingly kind and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. This was my first foray into fandom in...a VERY long time! And the Garashir fans are some of the best <3
> 
> I appreciate everyone who commented on each chapter and everyone who waited patiently (and not so patiently!) for the ending.
> 
> I hope it didn’t disappoint. <3
> 
> With much Kindness~ Pris


End file.
